


Returning Home

by shisabella



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Character Death, but this story deals with death quite a bit, there's a reason I'm choosing not to tag for Major Character Death, which should be evident soon enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 113,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shisabella/pseuds/shisabella
Summary: Ash disappears without a trace one night. Shortly after, a body is found and concluded to be his, and his friends and family are left to go on without him—until, over a year later, someone knocks on Misty's door in the middle of the night.
Relationships: Kasumi | Misty/Satoshi | Ash Ketchum
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving my old works from fanfiction.net and tumblr to this account. This story was originally written between 2015 and 2016.
> 
> Original notes:
> 
> A note about the dates: I'm ignoring the whole "Ash is forever ten" thing and counting roughly one year for each league. Assuming Ash's journey started in 1997, when the first episode of the anime aired, this prologue is set in 2000, when he and Misty are thirteen years old. The rest of the story takes place one year later.  
> Another note: as you might know already, English is my second language. This is my first attempt at a lengthy story that isn't a translation of something I'd previously written in Italian. If you want to point out mistakes, please feel free to.  
> Warning for violence and death.

_(June 14th, 2000; somewhere near Mahogany Town, Johto)_

There's no warning when he disappears.

There's no shiver running down her spine, no sudden chill in her bones. She doesn't wake up drenched in cold sweat, hair sticking to her forehead in clumps and heart hammering in her throat. Instead she sleeps like any other night, and wakes up into the first day of his absence without knowing it. Later she'll replay those last hours over and over in her head, wondering what she could have missed, how she could not have _known_ ; but now she just grumbles annoyed at a ray of sunlight shining directly on her face and snugs deeper into her sleeping bag.

She doesn't know how long it is until something nudges her shoulder repeatedly. Still half asleep, she turns to find Pikachu calling her and tugging at her shirt, ears and tail pricked up high.

"Pikachu-pi! Pikachu-pi!"

She rubs her hand over one eye. "Wha—Pikachu, what's it...?"

"Pikachu-pi! _Pikapi!_ "

Hearing the few syllables of his name wakes her up a bit more. Her eyes instinctively shoot towards the sleeping bag at her left: it's empty. She doesn't know what time it is, but the sky is still pale enough to be close to dawn, and she can hear Brock almost-snoring somewhere behind her.

She sits up, running a hand through her hair to push it away from her face. "...Okay, I'm awake. What happened? Where's Ash?"

Pikachu shakes his head, his eyes wide. Frowning, she looks at his sleeping bag again, and now her stomach does crumple a little and her heart does run a bit faster. The rest of her is still somewhat sore from last evening's spat, though, and she's determined not to let go of her grudge so easily, so she purses her lips and tries to swallow down her concern. "Okay, um. He's gotta be around here somewhere. Let's take a look."

She checks on Togepi, who's still asleep, then crawls to her feet and looks around. Ash's backpack is next to his empty sleeping bag, the belt with his pokéballs lying on top of it. "Did you see him go somewhere, Pikachu?"

He shakes his head again. Misty looks back at his things. He does get up early in the morning sometimes, usually when he's impatient for something, but rarely _this_ early and definitely never leaving behind Pikachu and the rest of his pokémon. Unsure, she lingers for another moment and then heads towards the line of trees in front of her, Pikachu following immediately after. There's a patch of tall grass there that looks squashed, like someone stepped on it; but the footprints—if that's what they are—don't seem to go any farther.

She bites her lip a little and delves deeper into the trees. "Ash?" she tries calling. "Are you there?"

There's no answer, nor sound of footsteps other than her own. The forest is quiet, the sorta-quiet forests always are on the surface, but that silence now unnerves her for some reason. "He's probably around here," she tells Pikachu again to fill it, then brings her hands around her mouth and raises her voice: "Ash! Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Her stomach crumples again. She obstinately clings to her irritation anyway and keeps going, stopping from time to time to call and listen. Silence still, save for the flapping of wings of a flock of Noctowl disturbed by her yelling.

She hastens her steps a little. "Ash! Come on, stop messing around! This isn't funny!"

"Pikapi!"

By the time she gets back to the clearing the still-too-quick run of her pulse has hiked to a throb in her temples despite her efforts to not be worried. His sleeping bag is still empty. She swallows and her nails dig into her palm. _Don't be stupid_ she tells herself, _he's probably just—_

_he's probably just..._

but the sentence hangs unfinished in her mind.

In the other sleeping bag Brock is half-sitting up, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Her yells must have woken him. "What's going on?" he asks looking up at her, his voice still somewhat groggy.

She bites her lips again. "It's Ash. I don't know where he is."

Brock looks puzzled at her and then at the sleeping bag. "Pikachu woke me up to tell me he wasn't here," she explains, pushing away a strand of hair that fell back on her face. She forgot to put it up in a ponytail. "I don't know where he's gone."

Now that she's said it out loud his absence feels somewhat more urgent, somewhat more _there_ , and the knot in her stomach tightens. Brock frowns and stands up.

"Well, he can't be too far. Let's find him."

It sounds more reasonable in his voice, but still not quite enough to make the knot go away. She nods, though, and goes to pick up Togepi, who has woken up as well in the meantime and started calling her.

"It's okay," she tells it, and herself, burying a tiny flicker of hesitation under her words. "That idiot probably got himself into some trouble like always. But we're gonna find him. Right?"

_Right?_

_***_

Later, when she dissects the memories of that night and morning in her mind like a slide under a microscope, she'll ask herself over and over: _what if I'd done something differently? Could I still have stopped it?_ They gave them a window of hours; they couldn't determine the exact time it happened. It was probably too late already when she woke up to Pikachu calling her; but still. _What if I'd heard or felt something, what if I'd woke up sooner?_

_How did I not know?_

_***_

By lunchtime the sky has turned a swollen gray and she's bitten her lip so hard that it started to bleed. They haven't found him yet. It's been hours and nothing—no footprints, not a trace; he's just gone, vanished into thin air.

Brock suggests they stop to eat something. She shakes her head.

"I'm not hungry."

He sets down his backpack anyway. Misty gives him a swift glance: "You eat if you want. I'll keep looking."

"You can do that in twenty minutes. You can't go the whole day on an empty stomach," he remarks. "Besides, maybe smelling food will make him turn up."

Her teeth sink again into her already-achy lip. She scans the forest around them for a handful of moments still, her heart a lump in her throat; then lets out a sigh and sits down on a tree stump. "Where do you think he is, Brock?"

He shrugs. He kept trying to reassure her, but his lips are pressed together tight in a bone white line as he kneels to light a fire. "I don't know. Maybe he couldn't sleep and went for a walk, and got lost."

Misty puts down Togepi and hugs her ankles, and tosses the next question back and forth in her mind without managing to get it out. _Do you think he's okay?_

The smell of the soup Brock is heating makes her want to throw up. She draws her knees closer to her chest and keeps looking around, her eyes going over every tree and bush surrounding the clearing two, three, four times; but the forest is still as quiet as before. She can't stand it. Her fingers itch with the urge to rip every last leaf and branch from the ground until she'll have torn that infuriating silence into pieces.

"I'm sure he's fine," Brock answers even if she didn't ask out loud, placing a bowl of soup under her nose. She winces and looks away.

"Then why haven't we found him yet?"

"Maybe we just haven't looked in the right place. Come on, eat something."

"I'm not hungry, Brock, I'm going to be sick."

"Give it a try at least," he insists. She sighs again and takes the bowl from his hands, but mostly just holds it on her knees, clinging to its warmth.

Next to the stump Pikachu is staring at the trees and not touching his food either. Nervous sparkles crackle around his cheek, matching the flickering clouds in the distance.

_***_

It starts raining in the afternoon: lightning cracks the sky open and moments later it's pouring. She tucks Togepi in her bag and hurries her steps instead of stopping, ignoring her hair falling in her eyes and her shirt sticking to her shoulders and her back. "Ash! Can you hear me? _Ash!_ "

Brock runs after her and closes a hand on her arm. "Misty, wait—we'd better get out of this rain and wait until the storm's over."

She pulls her wrist from his grasp: "I need to keep looking. Ash!"

The ground is wet and slippery under her shoes. She shoves the bushes out of her way, her pulse a drum in her neck, and thinks _idiot_ , thinks _come on_ and _where are you_ and _please_. A branch snaps back to hit her, scraping a burning trail across her face. Lightning turns the forest white. _Idiot, stupid idiot, where are you._

Something gives under her foot. She tries to hold on to something, misses; lands on her knees in the mud. And suddenly she doesn't know how to stand back up.

He's not there. They've been looking for—ten, eleven hours now? They should have found him. Even if for whatever reason he wandered away and got lost, even if he was stuck somewhere with a sprained ankle or a broken leg, they should have found him. But he's not there.

Brock reaches her again and takes off his jacket, holding it over her head to try and shield her from the rain. "Come on, there should be a pokémon center around here," he says. Misty shakes her head. The back of her eyes stings.

"We can't leave him here."

"We don't know where he is. He might be at the center already, maybe he thought we'd be there too."

"Or maybe he's hurt and he's out here somewhere!"

Thunder explodes above them, swallowing her last few syllables. She hears Togepi cry out from inside her bag. "We're not gonna find him if we get struck by lightning," Brock says, and wraps one arm around her waist to pull her to her feet. She's soaked to the bone and shivering, her hair plastered to her cheeks. "Come on. Pikachu, let's go."

Pikachu lags behind, looking at the trees still. Only after Brock calls him a few times over he finally turns around to follow.

They find the pokémon center, but not him. Nurse Joy shakes her head when she asks about a boy her age, her forehead slightly furrowed at the middle.

"I'm sorry, I haven't seen him."

"Are you sure?" she insists. Her hair drips on the counter as she leans forward. "He's—he's a bit shorter than me, with dark hair—"

"The two of you are the first to come here today. I'm really sorry."

Outside thunder roars again. She turns towards the window and meets Brock's eyes, and for a second she wants to throw her frustration and worry upon him and scream _you said he might be here_. She squeezes it out in a ragged breath instead, or at least tries, and slides her bag from her shoulder to take Togepi out.

A Chansey nudges Brock with a pile of blankets. He lays one on her shoulders, and she sits on one of the couches holding it tight around Togepi and herself. She looks at the rain hitting the window. The last words she said to him were sharp and angry on her tongue, purposefully shaped to cut.

_Maybe I will._

Their steps left a trail of mud and puddles across the floor. Brock sits next to her, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders sagging forward a little. "Do you still think he's alright?" she asks after a bit. He lets out a sigh.

"I hope."

"What do we do? Just... sit here and wait?"

"Well there isn't much else we can do right now, is there?" As if on cue lightning crashes somewhere nearby, tracing the silhouettes of the trees in harsh black lines. "If he's out there I'm sure he's found somewhere to shelter from the rain. He can take care of himself for a bit."

Misty glances at him. "Are you _sure?_ "

"Mostly." He attempts a smile, but it doesn't quite work. She looks at her mud-covered shoes and says nothing.

It rains all the way through the afternoon. Pikachu sits on the sill, not taking his eyes off the window even when Brock stands to make some dinner. She tries to eat something this time, but her stomach is still in knots.

In the end she curls up in a ball on the couch, leaning her head against the back and listening to the patter of the storm while Togepi sleeps in her arms. The clock on the wall strikes ten, then eleven. She bites her lip hard and waits, every tick of it sinking into her skin like nails.

_***_

_The hyper beam crashes against the ground raising a blast of smoke and dust and she can feel her heart miss a beat and then start hammering fast in her throat. Please, she mouths, and her lips are numb and her feet glued to the sidewalk; please, please, please._

_When the dust clears he's lying with his face in the dirt, curled up and still around Pikachu, but he lifts his head after an interminable moment and props himself up on his elbows. Still shaking, she regains control of her legs and runs to him. He's sitting up, his clothes and hair covered in dust; and later she'll see that his shoulder and his ribs are bruised black and blue all the way down his waist, but he's not dead or dying or bleeding, no broken bones sticking out, no charred skin._

_He's fine. She could hug him, dig her fingers into his shirt and hold him tight, instead she catches her breath leaning her hands against her knees and then yells "Idiot!" at the top of her lungs._

_He gives her a surprised stare. She balls her fists and tries to ignore her heart still on the verge of exploding. "You could have gotten hurt!"_

" _Well, I didn't," he retorts. He notices a scrape on his elbow and promptly touches it, only to immediately take his fingers away with a wince. "Ow."_

" _Serves you well. Maybe that'll teach you to throw yourself in front of a freaking hyper beam!"_

_He puffs his cheeks: "But it was gonna hit Pikachu, what was I supposed to do?"_

" _Well not give me a heart attack, for a start!" She almost yells it, her nails digging marks into her palms. "Sooner or later you're gonna get yourself killed!"_

_And she doesn't say it out loud, but in her head she adds: sooner or later I'm going to lose you._

_(But later he smiles and all the light in the room goes into his face, and she can't help but feel the ugly knot of her anger and hurt loosen a little—or maybe more than that.)_

_but sooner or later_

_I'm going to—_

She realizes she's fallen asleep only when a hand shakes her shoulder gently. She jerks awake, sitting upright with a gasp, a jolt of pain shooting through her stiffened neck. Brock is standing in front of her. She blinks a couple times, her mind slightly tangled in her dream or memory, then raises a hand to rub her eyes.

"I fell asleep," she grumbles. "What time is it?"

"It's morning."

She swallows, delaying the next question and his answer for a moment still, a tiny flicker of hope flaring up at the back of her mind: _maybe he found the pokémon center while I slept. "_ Ash?"

Brock sighs. Sunlight shines through the window behind his back. "He's not here. Let's eat something and then go back to look for him, sounds like a plan?"

The flicker fizzles away between her fingers. "Yeah. Alright"

The storm has wiped off any trace they might have left yesterday. They send out his Noctowl and Brock's Crobat to look for him and find their way back to the clearing, calling his name over and over. The wind keeps pushing her hair on her face. There's still the circle of stones where Brock lit a fire to cook dinner, but everything else looks like no one's ever been there. She doesn't know what she expected—to find him just standing there like nothing ever happened?, but her stomach still drops at the sight of that empty space.

Brock lays a hand on her arm. "Let's keep looking," he says. They do.

The morning is halfway over when she hears a rustling between the bushes. She bolts in that direction without a moment of hesitation, scraping her shin against a tangle of roots and her palm on a thorny branch; but when she pushes the shrubs out of her way it's not Ash's eyes she meets.

Something inside her is set aflame. A second later she's holding James by the front of his shirt and shaking him, and it doesn't matter that he's at least one whole foot taller than she is.

"Where is he? What have you done with him?!"

He looks positively terrified. "Wha—done to who—?!"

She shakes him again: "Where. Is. He?!"

James blinks. There's silence for a second or two and her hands itch with the urge to shove him against the nearest hard surface until he'll spill the beans. "I think she's talking about the other twerp," says Jessie's voice then.

James stares at her and then at Brock, lifting his hands to count on his fingers. "Oh. Right. One's missing."

"Yeah, like you didn't know," she growls. Next to her Pikachu jumps forward, sparkles beginning to form on his cheeks. James quickly turns his palms towards her.

"Wait. Wait—wait—wait! We didn't! Honest! We haven't seen him!"

"Yeah, sorry to disappoint," adds Meowth. Misty glares at him.

"I don't believe you."

Jessie shrugs: "What would we even need him for? It's Pikachu we're after, not him."

"It's—" Misty bites the inside of her cheek, feeling her logic crumble a little. She clings to it anyway: "It's a plan. You kidnapped him so you could get to Pikachu!"

"Then _why_ wouldn't we be trying to take Pikachu right now?"

She looks down at Pikachu, still by her side. "She's got a point," Brock chimes in. She turns.

"You trust them?"

He shrugs his shoulders with a sigh. "I don't. I just think what they're saying makes sense for once."

Misty turns back to James, her hands still clasping the fabric of his shirt. She shoves him away.

"If I find out you've hurt him I swear I'm going to kill you," she warns him, her fury still rattling up through her like a wave. James sits up, massaging his back.

"Yeah, taking your word on that. Listen, we ain't done anything this time, okay? We can even help you look if that'll convince you!"

"Yeah, like we don't have anything better to do," Jessie scoffs. He gives her a confused look.

"But, Jessie, we _don't_ have anything better to do."

"We don't _need_ your help!" she interrupts them, her fingers balled into fists. James crosses his arms.

"Fine, fine. Just trying to be nice, you know."

"Yeah, like you're capable of that!"

"For your information, we can be the nicest—"

"Who _cares_ , stop making us waste our time!"

Her hands shake. Brock takes a step forward and touches her arm gently, but firm. "We're all wasting our time if we keep this up. Come on, let's just continue looking."

"I still don't trust them," she protests. He lets out a small sigh.

"I know, me neither. But we've got something more important to do than stand here bickering with them. Let's go."

She glares at James one more time, but does turn to leave afterwards, despite the tremble of her anger not having quieted at all. She takes a few steps before she hears Jessie's voice: "Hey, kid?"

She turns back. "What?"

"If—I mean, let it be clear, we've got nothing to do with all this, but if we _do_ see your friend, we'll let him know you're looking for him, alright?"

Her voice softens at the end. Misty stares at her for a moment, her fists loosening a little.

"Thanks."

Jessie rolls her eyes and looks away in an attempt to reestablish that it's nothing but an annoyance to them. Something about the lines of her face though still looks somewhat less sharp and cold than before.

They go on looking. By midday Crobat and Noctowl are back with no news of him.

_***_

Brock calls Delia that evening, when another day ends with him still not there. She sits on the couch across from him, staring at the floor and listening to the phonecall without really hearing it. Brock's words wash over her like a tide. There's tiny half-moon shaped marks on her palms, where she dug her nails into her skin.

They haven't found him.

Brock hangs up, sighs and looks at the wall for a bit, then turns to look at her. "She said to alert the police."

She swallows. Her mouth is dry. _Alert the police_ means that it's out of their hands. "Are you going to?"

He nods. His hand lingers on the phone for a few moments before he picks it up again. Misty watches him and thinks about how until now he was only gone, vanished for no discernible reason and maybe lost or hurt but maybe still somewhere nearby, maybe still somewhere where she could find him. By the time Brock's done talking to the police he will be missing and that's different somehow. She never thought a word could feel so much like emptiness, like being stuck midway through a fall and not knowing if you'll find something to hold on to or if you'll hit the floor and break your bones.

Brock sits next to her when he's done talking on the phone. "Think they'll find him?" she asks, her eyes still on the floor.

"They will. They're sending a search squad over here."

"And do you think he'll be—okay, when they do?"

It's not exactly what she wanted to ask, and Brock must have noticed that hitch in her voice because he turns to look at her. What she wanted to ask was do you think he'll be _alive_ when they find him, because she's ran over every other option in her mind and that's starting to feel like it might be the only one left. But she can't say it out loud.

"Yeah," Brock says. "I told you, I'm sure he can take care of himself for a while."

"Really? Alone, without any of his pokémon or food or—"

"He'll be okay," he insists. But deep down it sounds like he doesn't believe it too much anymore, either.

_***_

The searches go on for days. The word _missing_ jabs deeper into her middle and she curls up around her hurt, hugging her knees on the couch while the clock ticks endlessly behind her. Officer Jenny speaks with her, asking about the details of his disappearance; she says that anything she remembers might be of help, and she feels useless when all she can say is that she woke up next to an empty sleeping bag. She mentions the patch of squashed grass, like footprints that didn't go anywhere. The officer writes something down on her notepad.

"Anything else?" she asks. Misty bites her lip.

"We—we had a fight the evening before," she answers, and the back of her eyes burns suddenly as she says it out loud. She swallows and tries not to blink. "It wasn't really weird, it happens a lot. But I thought—I thought maybe he might have walked away because of that and got lost, or maybe hurt."

Officer Jenny notes that down as well. "Is that how he would have acted normally?"

She shakes her head. "No, not really. I just—I'm trying to think of _something_."

"Just try to stick to facts right now. Any other details you can remember?"

She bites her lip harder and shakes her head again. "Uh-uh."

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your friend?"

For a moment she thinks of Jessie, James and Meowth, but she remembers the way Jessie's words and face softened when she said that she'd tell Ash they were looking for him. "I don't think. I'm sorry—I'm not helping much, am I?"

"Every bit of information you can give could help us find him," officer Jenny assures her, closing her notebook. She's not sure she believes it. "We'll keep you updated with our investigation. Let me know if you remember anything else."

She nods and watches as the officer walks away to question nurse Joy. After a bit she grows sick of sitting there with nothing better to do than continue driving her nails into her palms, and she tucks Togepi in her bag and stands to go back outside and continue looking, even if there's already helicopters flying over the forest. She can't shake the thought that they might miss something, that there might be something somewhere that she'd recognize as a trace he left and they wouldn't.

She calls until her throat hurts. She gets angry too, because anger is still better than that crushing emptiness and at least keeps her moving, and yells at the trees that he's an idiot and that when she finds him he'd better have a really good explanation for this. When the echo of her words fades the forest is silent again.

By sunset her voice is a croak and every bit of her aches. Brock wraps his jacket around her shoulders and brings her back to the pokémon center.

The next few days feel like they won't ever end. Delia gets there on the third day of searches, five days after he disappeared. She listens and nods as officer Jenny tells her that they're doing everything they can, composed but pale as a sheet, her hands grasping her purse so tight that her knuckles have turned white.

Misty can't look her in the eye. She thinks _I should have stopped this, stopped him, I should have known_ ; and Delia's worried but gentle gaze makes her want to curl up on herself and disappear.

She can't sleep. Her eyes feel like sandpaper and there's purple shadows around them, but she tosses and turns in her blankets until they're a tangle. When she does sleep there's usually nightmares awaiting.

She jolts awake from one one night, almost-seven days after he disappeared. She already can't remember what the nightmare was seconds after her eyes snap open, but her breath is still halfway caught in her throat and she lies with her hair sticking to her cheeks, listening to the pounding of her heart slowly going back to normal. When she stops shaking she sits up and pushes away her blankets, after making sure that she didn't wake up Togepi as well. For a while she just stares at the quiet of the room and at the empty bed across from her where only Pikachu is sleeping. Then runs a hand through her hair and stands.

She doesn't quite know what to do with herself. She ends up walking to the hall of the pokémon center to keep her legs busy. She's not expecting to find anyone there, and she almost jumps when she recognizes the silhouette sitting on one of the couches. For a handful of moments she just freezes, wondering if she'd manage to turn away and go back unnoticed; then Delia looks up at her.

"Misty," she says. Her voice is kind. She looks down, kicking the floor a little.

"Mrs. Ketchum. I—I couldn't sleep."

"I guess that makes two of us," Delia says, then pats the couch next to her. "Come sit here with me, will you?"

Misty hesitates for another few seconds, then complies. She still can't look at her. The cushions sink under her weight and she feels like gelatin, like something in her is only barely holding together and could give at any moment. She hides her face in her hands.

"I don't know what happened." It comes tumbling out of her lips before she can stop it, even if she didn't know she was going to say anything. "I keep wondering what—what I could have missed and where he could be, and—I don't know. I just don't."

There's silence for a moment. "Oh, honey," Delia whispers then, and her fingers gently brush a strand of hair away from her forehead. "None of this is your fault. No one thinks it is."

_But I do_ she thinks, and putting it into words, even if it's just to herself, cuts deep like the blade of a knife. Delia keeps stroking her hair.

"If there's someone I know cares for Ash as much as I do, it's you," she tells her. "I know you're worried. I'm worried too, terribly. But I know there's nothing you should blame yourself for."

Misty sniffles a little and presses for a moment her palms against her eyes, then takes her hands from her face. She finds nothing to say, and Delia doesn't add anything else either. They just sit next to each other for a bit, waiting for another night to pass.

_***_

How does a person just disappear? How do they go from something you can touch—from bones and skin and warmth, from eager fingers grasping your wrist and sweaty clothes and smiles, from something you can hold to empty air over the span of one night? How do you keep that inexplicable emptiness from crushing you?

_***_

" _I hope you're satisfied."_

_Ash blinks, stopping midway through taking his backpack off. "What are you talking about?"_

" _If we'd followed the map like I said from the beginning we'd have reached Mahogany Town two days ago, instead it's a miracle if we aren't still lost!"_

_He puffs his cheeks, pouting, and drops the backpack at his feet. "Well, but we aren't lost anymore, are we? Besides, you don't need to act like it's all my fault."_

" _I'm acting like it's all your fault because it_ is, _" she points out, shooting him a glare. He crosses his arms._

" _Well what about when_ you _made us take that turn that got us even more lost?"_

" _I was trying to get us back to the path after_ you _made us leave it to take your stupid shortcut!"_

" _Guys, come on," Brock tries to step in. "It's everyone's fault. What matters is that we did get back on track in the end."_

" _Not thanks to him," she retorts, in the same moment that he grumbles "not thanks to_ her _". Brock sighs defeated as they continue glaring at each other. She could let it go—after all, it's not like this is the first time they get lost, and she did play her part about as much as he did—but she's dead tired and today was hot and sticky and she feels like she could kill to be in a freaking civilized place with showers and actual beds already, and hey, she_ wouldn't _have played her part in getting them more lost if he hadn't gotten them lost in the first place; and the sum of everything grates on her nerves in an exceptional way. So she puts down Togepi and brings her hands to her hips._

" _We couldn't just follow the map like any sane person would. No, because that would have made too much sense!"_

" _What's your problem today?" he groans, sitting down on a tree stump. She shrugs._

" _I don't know, maybe the fact that we've been lost for nearly three days? Or the fact that I continue to listen to you even if I should know better by now!"_

_He pouts again. "Well why don't you just leave and go on your own journey if following me bothers you so much," he grumbles after a moment, looking away._

_And she'll regret shaping her words to hurt him moments after they've left her lips, but for the rest of the evening she'll entrench herself into a stubborn silence anyway, stupidly refusing to let go of her petty grudge:_

" _Maybe I will."_

_***_

It's been nine days and half since he disappeared when Delia's cellphone rings.

From the other side of the room Misty watches her turn paler that she's ever been, watches her hands shake. Watches her nod almost mechanically at whatever the person on the other end is telling her, and something inside her twists and crumples until there's no air in the room and she can't breathe anymore.

Delia hangs up without speaking. She breathes in; her shoulders heave and tremble. She looks up at her and Misty thinks _say it, just say it_ , because not knowing is almost worse than whatever might be coming next.

She watches as her lips part. For a moment no sound comes out.

"They found a body."


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> Super quick A/N: the lyrics quoted in a couple places are from "Stay In My Memory" by Bim.

_so stay in my memory, you can hide out there_

_(September 8th, 2001; Cerulean City, Kanto)_

"Are you like, _totally_ sure everything is fine?"

Misty lets out a small sigh, rolling her eyes. "For the millionth time, Daisy, yes."

On the videophone screen her sister frowns a little, her perfectly arched eyebrows furrowing towards the middle. "Okay, okay. Just wanted to make sure one last time."

"The three of you ran this place alone for years and somehow it's still standing, I'm pretty sure I can do the same for a few weeks. Besides you know, even when you're here I'm the one who does most of the work, so it won't really make much of a difference."

She says the last bit with a slight grin, meaning to tease more than to bite. Daisy puckers her lips.

"Hey now, no need to get all like, uppish about it. I'm just worried."

Misty sighs again. "I know. But really, I'm fine, the gym is fine, now stop worrying and enjoy your trip."

"...Okay. But you know, just in case, if you need something—"

"I can call you, or Brock. I know. You've told me at least fifteen times. Have fun."

Daisy waves her hand vaguely in the air. "You too, with, like, the gym and all."

"I'm planning to. You know, I actually _like_ taking care this place, unlike some people."

"Are you talking about us?"

"No, what could possibly make you think that?" She chokes back a laugh at her sister's offended face, shaking her head. "Come on, I'm just teasing. Mostly. Say bye to Violet and Lily for me."

"Fine," Daisy concedes, still pouting a bit; but after a moment her expression scrunches again into a worried frown: "But are you _sure_ —"

" _Yes_ ," she cuts her off. "Daisy. Seriously. I'm doing okay."

Daisy asks her one more time anyway (just, like, to make _sure_ ), then waves goodbye from the screen and promises to send her postcards, and lingers there for another moment before finally hanging up. Misty lets out another sigh in the silence that follows; then puts down the phone as well, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and turns around, a glimmer of smile finding its way to her lips.

It's still early. She scoops up Togepi, who was waddling around her feet waiting for her phonecall to be over: "Let's get to work, how about that?"

Togepi waves its arms in agreement. She stops in the kitchen first to pour herself a cup of coffee; sunlight shines through the window, drawing warm rectangles on the floor and the wood of the counter, and she stands leaning against it for a bit and enjoying the quiet. Her ears have been ringing with the sound of her sisters' constant squealing since Daisy won those tickets. Sometimes she finds the silence unbearable when there's too much of it, thick and heavy like a blanket, but right now it feels like a blessing.

She heads back to her room when the clock on the microwave marks 7.45, balancing Togepi in the crook of her elbow and the half-empty cup in her other hand. She takes off her pajamas and throws on shorts and a t-shirt. As she turns towards the mirror her eyes fall on the photo tucked in the frame and she stops, hairbrush lifted mid-air, her breath pausing in her chest for a second.

It's a photo of her and Ash, from about a year and half ago—not long before she woke up to find his sleeping bag empty. Brock took it with a disposable camera that he'd bought because he liked the girl selling them. They were at a festival in a small town they passed through, some tourist thing; and Ash had grabbed her hand to drag her towards something. Brock snapped the photo right then. It came out a bit blurry, and it caught her in the middle of saying something, but she liked it because Ash was looking at her and smiling the brightest smile in the world. When Brock found it again and gave it to her at first she couldn't stand to see it. It felt like being ripped in two.

And there's a thing they don't say when they tell you that you'll be alright, that this is unfair and terrible but it will pass and you'll be okay again, be happy again—it's how exhausting it is to keep wondering if you're there already, if the worst is behind you and you can finally start to look ahead and breathe or if this was just a good day or week or month and tomorrow you'll be crumpled in a ball on the floor all over again. And how selfish it feels sometimes, to want nothing but that; to be yourself again, to be okay and normal and whole, not broken, not missing a piece.

Her fingers slowly trace the borders of the photo. She smiles at it a little; then turns back to her reflection to brush her hair. She picks up Togepi and her coffee again before walking out of the room.

She's doing okay.

_***_

When the phone rings again halfway through the afternoon she already knows what to expect, and she rolls her eyes when Brock's face appears on the screen.

"Hi, Brock. Did my sister tell you to call to check on me?"

He gives an embarrassed laugh. "Yeah, she did."

Misty puffs her cheeks a bit. "Well she'll be happy to know I haven't had the material time to burn down the gym yet. By the way, I'm a better gym leader than they've ever been. At least I don't give away badges for free."

"I know. I'm sure she knows, too."

"Yeah, well, then I don't get why she's worrying so much. I'm basically the only one who runs this place anyway since even when they're here they hardly ever do anything, I know how to take care of it."

Brock listens to her ranting and smiles patiently. "...You know, I don't think it's really the gym she's so worried about."

"I can take care of myself, too," she points out, feeling a little stung. Brock nods.

"I know. But I get her a bit. I mean, after all it's the first time you're completely alone since..."

His voice trails off and he leaves the sentence hanging unfinished between them, looking away for a moment. Misty presses her lips together.

"...You can say it, Brock. You know."

He lets out a small sigh. "Since what happened to Ash."

Hearing his name still hurts. Sometimes she wonders if it will always be like that, if for the rest of her life it will always feel like sticking a finger in a wound that's only barely stopped bleeding, and she's not sure what she wants the answer to be. She swallows. Then shakes her head and forces her lips into a smile.

"I'm okay. Really. My sisters have been driving me absolutely crazy over the past few days, I couldn't wait to finally have a bit of quiet."

Brock looks back at her as if trying to decide if she's telling the truth, and nods again after a second. "Alright. I trust you."

"You should have seen the state this place was in," she goes on, burying that ache deeper under her words. "Suitcases everywhere. I tripped over one the other night and I'm ninety percent sure it contained bricks."

He laughs a bit. "Yeah, I can imagine."

"So really, these three weeks are exactly what I needed. What about you instead? Everything alright there?"

"Yeah, business as usual. Forrest's getting more and more determined to take over the gym. I'm actually impressed by how good he's getting, he even beat me in a battle the other day."

"He must be taking after his brother."

"I'm sure he's gonna become much better than me. Oh, by the way, before I forget—I heard from Mrs. Ketchum this morning. She said to tell you that in case you feel like eating something that isn't microwaved or takeaway she'd be more than happy to come over there for a couple days."

"Hey, I _can_ cook a couple things," she protests. "I might not be the best chef in the world, admittedly, but I'm not _that_ bad."

Brock's eyebrows shoot up. "Huh, yeah. If you say so."

"What's that supposed to mean? ...Are you talking about that time I made dinner and you nearly got food poisoning, because that was only an acciden—"

"Okay, okay," he concedes, sounding anything but convinced. "I'll take your word. So, everything under control then?"

"Yeah," she sighs, puffing her cheeks again. "I'll call Mrs. Ketchum later to thank her, but there's no need for her to come here. I'll be alright."

"Fine. In case you need something—"

"I'll call. I know. See you, Brock."

"See you," he repeats, raising one hand to wave a quick goodbye. She does the same and hangs up, sighing a little again.

The silence suddenly feels a bit heavier than before. She stands in the hallway for a handful of moments, biting her lip; then shakes her head and tries to go back to her chores. It works for a bit to distract her, but after a while she catches herself standing idly near the edge of the pool, the mop forgotten in her hands, staring at the ripples on the water.

It's weird how pain works. Sometimes she's able to talk about him without hurting too badly afterwards; sometimes just hearing his name is enough to make her defenses crumble. Now it's not quite either, but the phonecall did shake her mood a little. She looks at the small waves across the surface for a while still. In the end she drops the mop in the bucket, leaves Togepi on the bleachers with Psyduck and changes into a swimsuit, and climbs to the top of the diving board.

She breathes in, back straight, the surface below her shining under the lights; then jumps. Like every time there's the briefest moment of shock as the water closes in around her, like a jolt of adrenaline rushing through her from the tip of her fingers. Slowly, her lungs relaxed, she swims until her palms touch the bottom, raising a thin swirl of sand. There she sits, wrapping her arms around her knees.

His body was found in the water. He didn't drown; it was the fall that killed him, not the river at the end of it. All the river did was drag away a dead body, far enough that he wouldn't be found until nine days later. He was probably dead by the time Pikachu woke her up to tell her he wasn't there. He was definitely dead while she called his name under the rain. That alone hurts enough that sometimes she feels like she can't breathe, but it's a kind of pain she's starting to learn how to smooth the sharper edges off and hold inside herself without doubling over. What she doesn't know what to do with is the rest, the bits she'll never have an answer for.

What he was doing at the edge of a cliff half a mile from their camp in the middle of the night. Why he got up and wandered away without saying anything to anyone, if it was somehow because of something she did or said. And if she could have done something, stopped him, held him back, if only she'd been awake or heard him walk away.

She waits until her chest burns and her heart hammers so loudly that it drowns out everything else, then thrusts her feet against the bottom and swims back up. The surface shatters over her head into a million pieces and she breathes in in a gasp, her pulse still a drum in her head. She closes her eyes for a moment and lets her body relax, shaking a little.

Gyarados swims by and gives her a concerned look. Misty smiles.

"Everything alright," she assures it, and she means it, mostly. She breathes in again, more slowly this time.

She dives back down for a quick swim before getting back to work, and when she climbs out of the pool her chest hurts less, and her everything else too. She rubs a towel over her hair and goes to pick things up where she left them. After all, there's still a lot that needs to be done, and the day isn't over yet.

_don't take all my thoughts today_

_so I can start to begin again_

***

She doesn't quite know what woke her up when her eyes shoot open, and it doesn't feel like it was a nightmare, but maybe it was, because as she lies on her back her breath catches in her throat a little and it takes her a couple moments to unhitch it and let it go. She stares at the ceiling for a minute or two, then turns to her side and looks at the digital clock on her nightstand. 4.07. Togepi is still asleep, thankfully, so she's careful as she sits up and quietly slides out of her blankets.

She finds one of her slippers, but not the other, and after squinting at the dark for a moment she walks barefoot out of the room and through the hallway. In the streetlight-lit kitchen she pours herself a glass of water and paces up and down a little. There's something that she can't quite shake, a funny almost-feeling just out of reach, like a prickle on her skin.

She nearly drops the glass when a loud knock comes from the front door. Her eyes shoot towards the microwave clock: still barely four a.m. Her heart jumps a little and as she wonders if it was really knocking she heard and scrambles for a logic explanation (her sisters? But they'd have their keys, and why would they be back already?) the noise comes again, and it is definitely knocking, and she resolves to leave her half-empty glass on the counter and gingerly venture out of the kitchen.

The banging on the door comes a third time. Somewhat irritated Misty hurries her steps a little, hastily tucking her ruffled hair behind her ear with one hand.

"Coming! _Arceus_ , it's the middle of the night."

The hallway is pitch black—she forgot to hit the switch as she rushed past it. Her foot bumps against the edge of the carpet and she almost tumbles forward, only regaining her balance by flailing her arms. The knocking resumes as she rights herself, and she curses under her breath as she reaches the door and fumbles with the lock: "Wait a damn minute. What could possibly be so important that—" and then she flings the door open and the words hitch in her throat.

She used to fantasize about it sometimes. Usually before forcing herself to get out of bed in the morning, curled in a tight ball under her blankets and digging her nails in the very last moments where she could pretend that she wouldn't have to wake up to a day where he was still gone. She imagined that she would open the door and he would be there, and it would all have been a mistake, they never found a body, never decided that it was him. She never really believed it, but she imagined it so hard that it'd hurt to let go, and her fingers would tingle as if they'd really been madly clinging to something.

She doesn't think she's imagining it now, but she must be. Maybe she fell asleep again and dreamed of getting up to get a glass of water. That must be it. But the pang in her chest warning her that she hasn't been breathing for the last who-knows-how-many seconds feels very real.

Her hand grasps the doorframe. Her knees feel suddenly wobbly and for a moment she expects them to hit the threshold at her feet. She's almost surprised when they do not.

He's standing in the middle of the walkway, his head lowered, his hands buried in his pockets. She notices the way his shoulders slouch—she doesn't know why that of all things. His teeth sink into his lip. He looks up at her for a second and then away again.

"Hi," he says.

Something inside her feels like a river crashing over its banks.

_You were dead_ she thinks. _They found the body. They said it was you. They had no doubt._

_They found the body and you were dead and it's been over a fucking_ year.

She takes in a breath and releases it in a shaky puff. Her lips are numb. " _Hi?_ " she croaks. He kicks the gravel a little.

"Yeah."

She shakes her head. " _Hi?!_ " she repeats, nearly screaming it this time, her voice rising up to an almost hysterical tone. "Is that—is that—"

_Is that all you have to say_ she's trying to ask, but it won't come out. Something like a strangled sob does instead, and her throat tightens and she digs her nails into the wood of the doorframe as she gasps for air. It takes her a handful of seconds to persuade her lungs to work again.

She looks up. He's still there, staring at his feet. She breathes in.

"They found your body," she accuses him. He raises one eyebrow a little.

"Yeah, he told—"

"We mourned you!" she shouts. Her fingers itch with the sudden urge to slap him across the face. "Me, Brock, Pikachu, your mom, all of us! We buried you!"

He bites his lip again. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"You're _sorry?!_ "

He says nothing. Misty's eyes scan his figure from head to toe and back again, still not quite managing to convince the rest of her. They stop on a darker spot on the side of his shirt.

She blinks. "You're bleeding."

"I guess," he says with a shrug. She stares at him, expecting an explanation. When it doesn't come she shakes her head again.

"What _happened?_ "

His teeth sink into his lip once more. She waits for what must be at least a full minute, then lets out a loud sigh.

"Come in. Let me take a look at that before you bleed out on my front door."

He hesitates for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other; then complies. She moves out of the way to let him in, instinctively pressing her back against the doorframe. She can feel the air move as he walks past her. He gives her a quick sideways glance before looking down at his feet again, and she nearly gasps as their eyes meet.

She closes the door. Her hands are shaking and the latch escapes her fingers more than once before she finally manages to push it back in place. Her heart is throbbing in her back.

He's still there when she turns. Maybe an empty corridor would have been easier to cope with. She could have told herself that she imagined everything, that she hallucinated it, that he was never there and it would all still make sense. But he is, and everything from the chilly night air sending slight shivers down her spine to the furious beating of her heart still tells her that she is not dreaming.

He still doesn't say anything, and neither does she. She can't. They stand in silence for a while. Then she turns, her eyes lingering on him for as long as possible, and makes way to the living room. His footsteps follow after a moment.

On the door she stops and nods towards the couch, the shape of it visible in the street lights coming from the window. "Sit down. I'll—I'll get some bandages."

She quickly spins around and hurries towards the bathroom. The neon light hurts her eyes when she flips the switch. She rummages through the cabinet until she finds bandages and a bottle of disinfectant, and almost drops them because her fingers are still trembling.

Back in front of the living room she stops and breathes in as if she were about to dive into her pool, closing her eyes for a moment. She's not quite sure what she's praying for—to find him sitting on the couch like she told him or to turn on the light and find the room empty and him gone like any hallucination worthy of its name. She walks in and hits the switch all at once.

Ash looks up at her. Now that she's seeing him in full light there's no doubt that he's there. She notices again the way he isn't quite holding himself upright, his shoulders sagging forward a little. There's mud on his shoes and scratches on his arms. She breathes in and out again and shakes her head.

"…Okay. Take off your shirt."

He presses his lips together and looks away. Misty frowns.

"Come on. I can't look at your wound if you don't."

His fingers still hesitate for a second or two as they grasp the fabric of his shirt to pull it over his head, and he keeps avoiding her eyes as she walks closer. She thinks it's the wound he doesn't want her to see at first. She doesn't notice until she's only a few steps away.

Her stomach turns.

His back is covered in scars. Deep, long marks crossing over in every direction, like his flesh was torn to bits and then haphazardly pieced back together. She parts her lips to speak and for a handful of moments she can't find her voice.

"What happened…?"

"What does it look like," he grumbles, staring at the carpet. She swallows and leans against the back of the couch, her legs shaky once again. It looks like whip marks. She takes another trembling breath.

"O-okay. Just—let me see the wound now."

He does. It's a red gash on his left side, under his ribs. There's too much blood to tell anything else, so she uncaps the disinfectant and pours it on some of the bandages to clean it, her stomach still in knots. She walks around the couch and kneels down in front of him.

"It's going to burn," she warns him. He shrugs.

"Doesn't matter."

He breathes in sharply through his teeth as she presses the bandages against his wound, but doesn't complain. His side rises and falls under her palm. She takes in other details she had not registered yet—he's thin, his ribs small bumps under his skin, and there's other scars on his arms and his stomach, though not as ugly as the ones on his back. And he's warm. He's breathing. A couple weeks ago she left flowers on his tombstone and now he's sitting in front of her and bleeding all over her couch.

The wound doesn't look as bad once she's cleaned it. It's as long as her finger and it'd probably need stitches, and the sight of it still makes her stomach turn over, but it doesn't seem to be as deep as she first though. She drops the bloody bandages in a ball on the floor and reaches for more.

She looks up at him once she's done. "Better?"

He nods. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Now tell me what happened."

He looks away, biting his lip hard. Misty waits. Then balls her hands into fists and stands up.

"They didn't let me see the body, you knew that? The body they said was you. They said it was in such bad conditions that it was best if I didn't." She shakes her head. "But it didn't matter that I never saw it, because I had nightmares about it for months anyway. I woke up screaming in the middle of the night, almost every night. And when I thought—every time I thought things were getting a bit better, every time I tried to go on, I'd just wake up screaming all over again."

Ash keeps not looking at her. His hands tighten on the edge of the couch. Misty shakes her head one more time.

"So I _deserve_ to know. I deserve to know why—why I had to go through that, why I had to mourn you and spend a whole year thinking that you were dead. Tell me."

He hesitates for a moment still, then breathes out in a sigh and reaches for his shirt to put it back on. He swallows, his eyes still fixed on the carpet at her feet.

"I was kidnapped," he finally forces out of his throat. She frowns.

"What?"

"By a man named Giovanni," he adds, the words still sounding like he has to squeeze them out. He presses his lips in a thin line and she sees him swallow again. "He's—the head of Team Rocket."

She still doesn't understand. "What...? Why?"

"He wanted me to become a part of the team. He—" his voice hitches for a second "he kept me locked in a cell and—his men would beat me. Not him, he—he doesn't like to get his hands dirty. But they did. Every day, until I did what he wanted."

His words jab into her middle like knives. She holds her breath.

"I held on for… I dunno, maybe a month. I thought it would be over somehow sooner or later. I thought—maybe they'd kill me and that'd be it. But they didn't, so I—started doing what he said. I kept telling myself that I was pretending and I was just waiting for the right moment to escape, but I think—I think really, I just wanted the pain to stop." He clenches his jaw, trembling a little; then suddenly looks up at her. "You wanted to know, right?"

She can't reply. Shaking, she takes a couple unsteady steps towards the couch and sits down. She brings her hands to her mouth.

"There was a body," she manages to stammer after a few moments. "They said—they were sure it was you. So we didn't—we didn't—"

"Yeah. He told me," he says. "He wanted me to know that no one would look for me."

She feels sick. Everything in her feels numb. "How are you here now…?"

"I ran," he replies with a shrug. "I learned some things from—the things Giovanni made me do. So when I finally had a chance to escape I took it. One of Giovanni's men fired at me, but I managed anyway."

His hand runs to the wound on his side. Misty turns to look at him.

He bites his lip one more time. "I just—I wanted to see someone familiar."

She just stares at him for a while. "Why did Giovanni want you?" she finally whispers, of all the things she could have said.

The corners of Ash's lips curl in a grim smile. It's the first one she sees since he appeared at her front door, but it's nothing like the smiles she remembers. It's bitter and empty.

"He's my father."

She says nothing. She looks at him for a moment still. Then slowly she leans closer, and wraps her arms around him.

He stiffens. "Don't. He made me do—I did some horrible things. You wouldn't—"

"I don't _care_ right now," she interrupts him, and holds him tighter. His arms remain limp at his sides, but he doesn't pull back, either. Misty digs her fingers in the fabric of his shirt, feeling every bump and furrow of his ruined back. Feeling him there, broken, hurt, but alive.

A single dry sob escapes her chest, painful like a rip, smothered against his shoulder.

She holds him like that for a while.

_***_

Ash doesn't look at her when she frees him from her hug. He presses his lips together, his eyes wandering towards the door.

"I shouldn't stay here," he says after a few moments. Misty frowns.

"What are you talking about?"

He stands up from the couch. "He's not just gonna let me go like that. He'll be looking for me."

She looks at him. "So what, you're gonna go meet him and make things easier?" she inquires. Her voice is still shaking a little. Ash clenches his hands into fists.

"If someone tracks me they'll end up here. I'm putting you in danger if I stay."

"It doesn't matter. You're not going anywhere."

He shakes his head: "You don't know what these people can do when—"

"It doesn't matter!" She stands as well. "I'm not letting you leave. I have my pokémon, if someone comes here I'll fight them."

"It's—not that easy. You don't _know_ what they're capable of."

"And you don't know what _I'm_ capable of if you think I'll just let you go anywhere alone in the middle of the night after what you just told me!"

He doesn't retort, but his eyes run back to the door and his weight shifts impatiently in the same direction. Misty takes a step forward, balling her fists as well.

"No, listen, you don't get to do this, okay?"

He gives her a glance. "Do what?"

"This! Pop up at my door after a _year_ and then disappear again after five minutes and expect me to just sit here and watch you leave!"

She shouts it louder than she meant to, and in the silence that follows she digs her nails into her palm until they hurt. He's quiet for a couple moments; then lets out a sharp breath and turns his head away again, his hands still clasped tight. "...Well, sorry. I couldn't exactly drop by to visit sooner, y'know."

Her shoulders drop a little, taking the blow. "I didn't mean that."

He says nothing. Misty sighs; then walks closer and tentatively lays a hand on his arm. She feels him tense up under her touch.

"Listen, we—we can figure something out, okay?"

"How?" he asks, grim. She bites the inside of her cheek.

"We—can call the police. They can protect you and—"

"No."

He says it so desperately that she's taken aback for a second. She shakes her head. "...But why? They could... put someone on watch or..."

"It's—not how you think," he stops her. His arm shakes slightly in her grasp. "Team Rocket is... bigger than you could ever imagine. They have people _inside_ the police."

She stares at him wide-eyed for a few moments. Then swallows a lump in her throat and breathes in. "...Okay. Just stay here then. There's only a few hours left until the morning, we'll be fine. And then—" she tries to think as she speaks, "tomorrow I'll call Brock and ask him to come here. We'll figure out together. I promise."

He promptly shakes his head again. "I've gotten you involved in this already. I don't need to drag other people in it."

"And what do you expect me to do, not tell anyone about any of this and pretend nothing happened?"

The way his teeth sink once again into his lower lip tells her that yes, that was exactly what he hoped she'd do. She lets out another small sigh. "I can't do that, Ash. Brock, your mother, Pikachu—they deserve to know too, I can't just keep it from them. They need to know that you're alive."

He looks at his feet. Misty gives his arm a gentle squeeze. She can almost close her fingers around it; she can't remember if it was always that way.

"And they _need_ to know. So we can help you."

He's silent for a moment still; then pulls his arm from her grasp, taking a half-step away. "I can take care of myself. I don't need your help."

"Well, you're getting it anyway," she snaps. Ash glares at her for a second before turning away again.

"I shouldn't have come."

"Well too bad, you're here now. And I'm not letting you leave, even if I have to stand here yelling at you till next morning!"

"Don't you get it, I'm trying to protect you!"

"And I'm trying to do the same!"

They stand looking daggers at each other for a bit. She takes a breath and releases it slowly, unsuccessfully trying to calm the wild pounding in her chest.

"I thought you were dead," she says.

"Yeah, I—"

"And now you're here," she continues, interrupting him "and that's already freaking _hard_ to take in, you know? And I can't—I can't take not knowing if you'll still be alive tomorrow if I let you walk out of the door right now. I can't _take_ it. So stop being so damn _stubborn!_ "

The back of her eyes stings a little. Ash keeps staring at her, but the harsh curve of his brow has softened a bit and the rest of his stance does as well after a few moments. He looks down and kicks the carpet, letting out an angry sigh. "Fine."

"Great." She sniffles and walks back to the couch, letting herself fall back on it. "Thanks."

He stands in the middle of the room for another handful of seconds; then sighs again and sits down as well. The cushions sink a little under his weight. In the silence that follows she listens to the still-furious beating of her heart and holds her pain between her hands, cutting herself on every sharp edge she had carefully smoothed away. She turns it over and over and doesn't know what to do with it.

She was angry when they told them the body was his. Furious. First because she couldn't believe it; then because they wouldn't let her see him. She wanted to scream and smash things, not cry. When she did cry at last it was out of anger still, or so she thought until she couldn't stop. _Do you have any idea what it meant_ , a part of her wants to scream now despite everything he said, _losing you_. But she thinks of the marks carved in the flesh of his back and that smile that wasn't really a smile at all, and tells herself that he probably knows all too well what it means to be lost.

She rubs the back of her hand over her eyes. "Are you hungry?" she asks. "I can get you something."

"...Yeah, that'd be nice, actually," he says. She attempts a slight smile, not quite managing it, and stands up again.

"Wait here. And don't try to leave, I swear I'll chase you and drag you back here."

"I won't try," he promises. Still, she lingers on her feet for a moment before hurrying to the door, and halfway out of the room she stops one more time. She swallows a lump of air. Only after another instant she manages to persuade her legs to work again.

_***_

When she comes back with a bowl of microwaved ramen he's still where she left him.

He eats swiftly, hunched over the bowl, one arm around it as if fearing that someone might take it from him. Misty watches him for a bit. "How did you know I'd be here?" she asks after a couple minutes.

He swallows. "I didn't," he says. "I thought you'd be traveling. I just had to try anyway."

She bites her lip. "I came back here after... well." She gives a little shrug, looking down at her feet. "I didn't really feel like traveling anymore."

His chopsticks stop mid-air for a moment before he crams another mouthful in. "I'm sorry," he grumbles through it, without looking at her.

"You don't have to be," she retorts. "Besides, it's not that bad. I'm officially a gym leader of the Cerulean City gym now."

Ash lifts his head a little. "Are you?"

"Yeah." She forces out a small laugh. "My sisters weren't doing that great, so I thought I'd try taking care of the matter myself. I liked it. It gave me something to do. And hey, I got to prove my sisters that I could do a better job than them, which was a nice bonus."

When she turns he's not quite smiling, but almost, like his eyes are but the rest of him can't remember how to. It lasts barely a moment; then he bites his lips and lowers the chopsticks in the almost-empty bowl. "What about... Pikachu, and—my mom? How are they?"

"They're fine. Well, as fine as they can be," she says. "Pikachu is living with your mom. She cares for him very much."

Ash stirs the remaining ramen and says nothing. She smiles a bit.

"I visit them sometimes. Pikachu always comes to sit in my lap. And your mom, she—we always talk a lot. She's helped me a lot. She's probably the kindest and the strongest person I know."

He bites his lips harder. "And Brock?" he asks after a moment, his voice wavering slightly. "What about him?"

"He's okay too. He's living with his family, and helping out with the gym and everything. Lately he's been thinking of starting to study to become a pokémon doctor."

He's silent again. She used to be able to look at him and know exactly what was going through his head; now she tries to imagine what might feel like, hearing about their lives going on and readjusting around his absence, and she's drawing a blank.

_I did some horrible things_.

There's so much she wants to ask him. Instead she sinks her teeth into her lip as well and stares at the carpet. "I'm sorry," she ends up whispering after a handful of moments, and she didn't know she was going to say it until it tumbles out of her.

Ash looks at her and frowns a little. "For what?"

"For that fight we had. You know, the evening before you—" She swallows. "I just—I never got to say it. I'm sorry."

He says nothing for a second or two, then shrugs. "I can barely remember what that was about. You don't have to be sorry."

"I know." She takes a breath and slowly lets it out. "But all this time I kept wondering if that was why—you walked away in the middle of the night, because you were mad at me. So I'm sorry. Even if it didn't have anything to do with anything."

He bends over to leave the empty bowl on the coffee table. She notices a thin scar running along his forearm. "I didn't go anywhere," he says. "I got up to pee and someone grabbed me and held something in my face that smelled like sleep powder. Then I woke up in a cell. That's it."

_That's it._ His voice is flat as he speaks, like it hardly even matters. It hurts so badly that her breath catches in her chest, and she wraps her arms around herself and can't speak anymore. He shuffles uncomfortably on his half of the couch and looks away.

When she woke up this morning he was dead and the hardest thing to accept was that she couldn't do anything, that that could never be changed no matter how hard she wished that she could go back and do something differently. Now he's there, and hurt in more ways than she can even begin to understand, and there has to be something she can do, anything other than look at the carpet and try to breathe around the lump in her throat; but she doesn't know what.

"Whose body was it?" she asks after a bit. Ash shrugs one more time.

"I don't know. Some kid who looked enough like me, I guess."

"But—they ran tests. They said—" that after being in the water for so long the body was in such a bad state that even Delia, who did see it, couldn't be entirely sure. But the DNA and dental records tests were. She shakes her head, tears stinging in the back of her eyes.

"Giovanni could've had those faked in a heartbeat," he says. She lets out a half-sob and brings a hand to her face. It's a while before she can bear to look at him again.

He's staring at nothing in particular, still sitting with that slouchy posture. His hand is grasping the edge of the couch, tight enough that she can see every tendon like ropes. She thinks of taking it in hers, but she stops when she sees him tense up even more before she's even touched him.

She wraps her arms back around herself. She can't say anything.

_***_

It still early in the morning when she calls Brock.

It takes her a good five minutes of hesitating with the phone in one hand to finally convince herself to dial his number. She paces back and forth as she listens to the dial tone, rehearsing the conversation in her head. _Something happened. There's something you need to know._ None of it sounds right.

"Misty?"

She turns. Brock is looking at her from the screen. She takes a breath and releases it in a nervous huff: "Hi."

He smiles, but his brow furrows in a slight frown, and she notices the way his hair is squashed on one side. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"It's fine, I was about to get up anyway. But are you okay? Why are you calling?"

She rolls the phone wire around her fingers. "Yeah, I'm okay. It's—listen, can you come here? As soon as possible?"

"Something wrong with the gym?" he insists. He shakes his head a little. "With your pokémon?"

"No, it's—it's all alright." She pulls the wire harder. "But it's complicated. Could you just—come here? It's... kind of really important. I'll explain."

Brock looks at her in confusion for a couple moments. Then runs a hand through his hair. "Alright. I'll be there as soon as I can, is that okay?"

"Yeah." She breathes out a bit. "Thanks."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I told you."

He doesn't seem convinced. He tells her he'll have his pokégear with him, in case she needs to call again before he gets there, and asks again if she's sure she's alright, twice, and she wonders how much of the mess of her emotions he can see on her face. She tells him okay, and yes, and see you, and puts down the phone after he does. She closes her eyes for a moment trying to collect her thoughts before heading back to the living room.

"I called Brock," she says. Ash looks at her for a moment, then away.

"Great."

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Listen, I—need to go take care of my pokémon and the gym now, so I was thinking maybe you could try to get some sleep in the meantime? I imagine you're tired."

She noticed the way he started to rub his hand over his eyes every now and then over the past couple hours. He shrugs, though. "I'm fine. And it's better if I don't anyway, I should keep watch."

"I can do that."

"You have your pokémon and the gym to take care of, you just said it."

"I can do _both_ ," she sighs. "You should get some rest. I'll wake you up if I hear or see anything strange, how about that?"

He puffs his cheeks. But he must be actually tired, because he grumbles a "fine" after a couple moments, rolling his eyes. She raises her eyebrows a little.

"You can have my bed if you want."

"The couch is fine."

She sighs again. "As you wish. I'll get you a blanket."

She heads to her room to find one. She picks up Togepi from her bed; and as she walks past her mirror her eyes fall on the photo in the frame. She stops, and takes it and holds it in her hand for a while, not quite knowing why.

His smile in the photo is brighter than anything. She looks at it until her chest aches. Then sets it down on her drawer, her eyes lingering on it for a moment still; and quickly runs her finger through her still-tangled hair before turning away.

She walks back with a blanket tucked under one arm and Togepi in the other. Right before the door she stops and sets the pokémon down: "Wait here," she whispers, because she has yet to think of how to explain, and waits until Togepi gives a confused nod before walking back in.

"Here."

Ash mutters a "thanks" and lies down on his uninjured side, facing the back of the couch. He curls up in a ball under the blanket, his legs drawn close to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around them. He never used to sleep like that, she thinks. He always took up all the available space, sprawling arms and legs everywhere. Now he seems to be doing the opposite, huddling up on himself until he almost disappears. She watches him for a moment still, to make sure he won't.

"You're not gonna try to run away if I leave, right?" she asks. "I'm chasing you. I swear."

A sigh comes from under the blanket. "I'm not."

"Okay." But she still hesitates for a bit before turning away. "Sleep well."

It's not until a couple hours later, when she's sitting on the edge of the pool with all the indispensable chores of the morning already done, that the almost-thought that's been stirring at the back of her mind suddenly rips through her. _I should have known_. It's stupid, of course; once the body was identified there was never a "maybe", there was never a "what if", never a reason to suspect that it might not have been him, but still she folds herself around her knees, her hands knotted tight around her ankles to keep them from shaking. _I should have known, I shouldn't have believed them, I should have found you_.

Togepi is the first to come cuddle by her side. Then Psyduck, and her Staryu; and the ones that can't come out of the pool crowd along the edge. Minutes later they're all surrounding her, even without knowing what happened, and she cries a little, doing her best to smother her sobs against her knees. They stay, and wait; and afterwards she's still hurting, and still lost, but perhaps a tiny bit less.

_***_

She goes back to check on him a couple times through the morning, her pulse and her steps hurrying a little as she walks down the hallway, half expecting him not to be there anymore. But the first time she finds him still sound asleep, although twitching slightly from time to time, like he's dreaming; and she stands in the doorway for a bit, listening to his breathing.

When she comes back again he's shifting under the blanket and his breath his ragged and heavy, and half words come out of his throat, sounding almost like sobs. She bites her lips, wondering if she should wake him up, but he seems to calm down after a while and she watches him for a couple minutes still and then turns to leave. She's just out of the door when she hears screaming.

Her heart jumps in her throat and she freezes and then spins around, rushing back into the room. He's still curled up in a ball under the blanket, and as she watches his shoulders tense up to the point that it almost looks like something in him might snap and break and he squeezes another strangled scream out his chest. For a moment Misty stands still, her own breath caught at the bottom of her lungs, then hurries to the couch and there she stops again. She swallows as he shivers; then lays one hand on his shoulder gently to shake him.

He jerks up the moment she touches him. He rolls to his back and his fingers grasp her wrist so tight it hurts, and her heart jumps again, a little.

Ash freezes when their eyes meet. For a handful of moments he just stares at her, his face a blank. She shakes her head a bit.

"...Hey. It's okay. It's just me."

He blinks. He looks at her again and then at his hand. She attempts a nervous smile, her heart still racing.

"You can let go now."

He does, slowly. He sits up and brings a hand to his eyes, turning away from her, and she resists the impulse to rub her wrist. "Don't do that," he says. She frowns.

"Do what?"

He breathes. "He—Giovanni trained me to be alert even when I'm sleeping. I might hurt you."

"...It's okay. You didn't," she assures him. Then shakes her head again. "You were screaming."

"I was just dreaming."

She's not sure what to say. She purses her lips as he keeps not looking at her, his breath still somewhat unsteady. Her eyes fall on the blood stain on the side of his shirt. She lets out a small sigh and sits next to him.

"...Hey, how about you take a shower and I see if I can find you something clean? There might be a couple shirts Brock forgot here somewhere. They'll be a little big, but at least they won't have blood on them." He doesn't reply, so she goes on. "And then you could come with me. I'll show you the gym and my pokémon. I think you'll be surprised."

She smiles, hoping he might smile back, but he doesn't. He turns to look at her though, at least. He blinks, seemingly overwhelmed for a second; then shrugs.

"Okay."

And perhaps it's not much of an answer, but it can be enough, for now. She repeats it to herself as she stands, breathing in and out again. _Okay_.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> Some notes:  
> \- The lyrics quoted this time are from "Plan the Escape", which is technically by Son Lux, but I was listening to Bat For Lashes' cover.  
> \- To those who asked in the comments "are we going to see_?": yes, you are going to see things. At some point.  
> \- I actually attempted to calculate the distance between Pewter City and Cerulean City to see if it would be possible to travel from one to the other via blimp over the span of one day. It should be.

" _You're crazy if you think I'll ever do what you want."_

_The man on the other side of the bars smiles. It's just a twitch of his lips, but something about it makes his skin crawl, and he swallows and fights the instinct to press his back against the wall. "I imagined it would take some convincing. But I can be patient. I'm sure you will come around in time."_

" _Not a chance," he spits out. The man doesn't flinch._

" _I think my friends here might help you consider your alternatives," he says and nods to the men standing behind him. Their faces are shadowed by the brims of their caps, and as they come closer he sees the shape of their muscles under their black uniforms and does take that half-step back, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking. He keeps his chin up, though, and holds his glance._

" _I won't do it," he insists, and perhaps his voice is shaking a little, too, but he swallows again and doesn't look away. "It doesn't matter what they do to me. I won't do it."_

_He keeps repeating it as the door of the cell creaks on its hinges and they pin him to the wall. I won't do it, I won't do it, I WON'T DO IT, even as a punch splits his lip open and blood fills his mouth. I won't do it I won't_

_The man doesn't speak. He just stands and watches, waiting, waiting._

***

The water of the shower itches on his scars and stings on the raw wound on his side, pooling in a murky puddle at his feet. He watches it roll down the drain for a bit; then reaches for the knob and turns it all the way to cold, and stands under the freezing blast until he's shivering so badly that his teeth clatter together and it almost becomes hard to breathe. Only after another handful of moments he turns the water off and finally steps out.

His eyes keep getting caught on details. The anemones on the shower curtain, the toothbrushes in the cup near the sink (three in different shades of pink an purple, one yellow); the half-used soap bar in the holder. He forgot what this looked like. The small everyday stuff, the kind you don't usually think about because it's just there and it's ordinary and normal and your eyes brush past it.

He lets out a breath that had gotten stuck in his throat a little. Then grabs a towel from the rack, and avoids meeting his own glance in the mirror.

Misty left clean bandages on the counter. She also said to call her if he needs help, actually, but he doesn't, although the wound has started bleeding again and he struggles a bit to hold the bandages in place. They slip from his grasp as he's trying to fix them, and a grunt escapes through his teeth as he moves too abruptly to keep them from falling and a stab of pain runs through his side. There's silence for a couple moments; then a knock on the door.

"Everything alright?"

He sighs. "Yeah."

He finishes patching up his wound and throws his pants back on. He finds her standing in the hallway, a white shirt folded in her arms. Her eyes run to the bandages and she lets out a small hint of a sigh.

"I said I'd help."

"Well, yeah, there was no need," he retorts. Perhaps a bit too harshly, because she presses her lips together and her hands tighten around the fabric. He tries again: "It's fine. It's nothing."

"Does it hurt?" she wants to know. He shrugs.

"It's nothing. Just a scratch."

"Yeah, of course. Here, I found this."

She hands him the shirt. He hears her breath catch for a second as he slips it on, and when he looks and sees her quickly turn away he realizes she was looking at the scars. Her teeth sink into her lip.

She's different, in a way he can't exactly put his finger on. She's a little taller, maybe; her hair is a little longer. There's a bit of her bangs that she keeps pushing away from her eyes. Something in the lines of her face looks not quite the same too, her cheeks somewhat less round, her chin sharper. As he watches and tries to find the differences she looks back at him and manages a smile.

"So, you coming?"

He nods, and follows her along the hallway, digging his hands into his pockets. "Where are your sisters?" he asks after a few moments. He hears nothing but the echo of their footsteps and muffled splashing noises, but he thinks of the four toothbrushes by the sink and a flicker of nervousness flares up at the bottom of his stomach. Misty's eyes turn to him again.

"Not here. Daisy won some tickets for a trip in a beauty contest, they'll be away for the next three weeks," she answers. Then gives a slight smirk: "So don't worry, there's only me you have to endure."

"I'm not _enduring_ you," he protests. She doesn't retort. Instead she stops, one hand on the door.

"I hope you're ready to be impressed," she says. He shrugs again.

"Impressed by what?"

"You'll see."

She pulls the door open. The surface of the water glints under the lights on the other side.

Psyduck is chasing Togepi around the pool when they walk in. They both freeze the moment they notice him, so abruptly that Togepi falls down on its rear and Psyduck crashes on top of it, and the whole arena is suddenly dead silent and his stomach crumples again, a bit. He thinks of Misty's eyes growing wide and her face turning suddenly sheet-pale when she opened the door and saw him. She takes a breath, slowly; then walks to her pokémon and crouches down.

"I know, you thought he was dead. I did, too. But he wasn't. He was—" her voice hitches and she pauses for a second before finding the words to go on. "Some bad people took him and—did bad things to him. But he's here now. And we're not gonna let anything bad happen to him ever again, right?"

Togepi's mouth wobbles. Misty lets out a sigh and picks it up. "Oh, don't cry. I know. You missed him. I missed him too."

It's hardly more than a whisper, and maybe he wasn't even meant to hear, but still it cuts right through him like a knife. She holds Togepi tight for a moment, ruffles Psyduck's feathers, then sniffles and stands, and spins back around extending one arm towards the pool, a slightly shakier smile on her lips.

"Well, ta-da! What do you think?"

His eyes scan the place, following the direction of her arm. He remembers it messier, and louder, some scene prop always forgotten somewhere and the bleachers filled to the brim with cheering spectators. Right now it's empty except them and the pokémon, and quiet; and the knot in his stomach loosens some. "It looks—nice."

"You still haven't seen the best part," she grins. "Gyarados, come out!"

"You have a Gyarados?" he marvels, as the surface of the pool bubbles and bursts open. The massive pokémon towers over them, water droplets glimmering on its blue scales, and she beams and lifts her chin with pride.

"Well, not to boast, but yes. Not long after I started taking care of the gym a Magikarp evolved suddenly and started making a mess. All the other pokémon were terrified. My sisters wouldn't do anything either, they were scared to even step close to the pool, so I had to do almost everything by myself. But I managed. I calmed it and got it to listen to me, and well, now I have a Gyarados."

He stares blinking at the pokémon, then back at her. He can't quite find anything to say. Misty tilts her head, watching him; and suddenly her face lights up.

"There it is," she says. He shakes his head a bit.

"What...?"

"A smile. You're smiling. A little. I just—really missed that."

Ash's chest feels tight. Maybe he should say something too; tell her that he missed seeing her smile as well, that he missed _her_ , more than he could ever hope to explain. But he doesn't know where to find the words for that. Maybe Giovanni took them out of him with everything else. He tries to hold on to that semblance of smile for a moment still, though.

She drops the subject and raises her eyebrows. "So, are you impressed?"

He's more than just that. He's proud; but that's more words he can't reach and there's a dull pain behind them anyway, there's knowing that she was okay until last night, that her world was whole and that he's now broken it twice, first by dying and then by coming back. He swallows a lump in his throat and can't look her in the eye as he answers.

(He thinks of her voice shaking with anger: _every time I thought things were getting a bit better. Every time I tried to go on._ )

"...Yeah. I am."

Still not looking, he walks to the edge of the pool and sits down, pulling his knees close to his chest. Light bounces off the water and draws dancing patterns on the wall as Gyarados slides back under. Misty hesitates for a bit; then comes closer and sits next to him. He can feel her eyes and keeps watching the reflections, wondering what he could ever tell her: I'm sorry? He's already said that. He could say it a thousand times more and it would change nothing.

She talks instead, after a moment. "You know, this one time a kid who had just started his journey came here insisting he wanted to battle the strongest pokémon I had. So I sent out Staryu, because I didn't want to crush him too hard, but he just kept _insisting_ , and so I called Staryu back and sent out Gyarados. He wasn't expecting that."

Ash turns to look at her. She laughs a little: "He basically had to pick his jaw up from the floor. I beat him in a minute and he bolted out of the gym without so much as a goodbye. And do you know what he did next?"

He shrugs. "What?"

"He came back two days later and tried to convince me I'd met his twin brother. Can you believe that?"

She keeps talking, telling him about something silly one of her sisters did, about that one time Psyduck got stuck in a lifesaver, about how once she battled a trainer who'd placed second in two different leagues, and sometimes her voice trails off stretched over an awkward pause, and he can feel the questions she's not asking him looming behind; but her words fill the silence. He listens, mostly, sometimes looking at the pool, sometimes at her. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Did you know once a trainer came here with a team that was _entirely bug pokémon?_

Small, ordinary things. Like the toothbrushes in the bathroom. Like the way she slips off her shoes and dangles her legs in the water, Togepi sitting on her knees.

The day goes by slowly, but that he's used to. At least, though, as her voice tiptoes around another halt, he remembers that for the first time in over a year he doesn't have to endure the silence alone.

***

" _My—" pain rattles through him and he has to stop and catch his breath before trying again. His lips are chapped and swollen. "My friends will find me."_

_Giovanni's shadow crouches beyond the bars. "That sure is a comforting thought. But see, the thing is... they're not looking anymore. A dead body was found two days ago and just now identified as yours. Your friends are currently mourning your death."_

" _They—they won't believe it." But something that feels an awful lot like fear knots his stomach tight. Because it's been days, almost_ weeks _now and no one's come yet, no one's found him. Giovanni grins._

" _Oh, they already do. Your mother, too. She was never a very bright one, was she? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm all you have left now."_

_He spits. Blood stains the floor of the cell. "I'm never gonna do what you want. You're gonna have to kill me."_

_The grin doesn't falter one bit._

" _We'll see about that."_

_hold on to our reasons_

_and plan the escape_

***

Brock gets there in the evening. He listens to the conversation from the living room, his hands clasping the edge of the couch.

"You were fast."

"Yeah, I managed to catch a ride on a blimp that was just leaving Pewter. Misty, can you tell me what's going on? What happened?"

A pause. "It's—a bit hard to explain. Maybe you should just—come and see."

"Come and see what?"

"Just _come_ , okay?"

Footsteps. He holds his breath. His throat is dry as paper. "Misty, seriously, what's this about?" says Brock's voice, closer now, and he can see shadows move on the wall; "Why are you acting like—" and then they're both on the door and Misty presses her lips together so tight that they disappear, and Brock's eyes brush past him once almost failing to realize he's there, stop, dart back to him. And he freezes, just like she did, just like Psyduck and Togepi did in the gym. Ash manages to hold his glance for a second, then looks down, sinking his teeth into his lip.

"Hi, Brock."

Silence. He bites his lip harder and looks back up. Brock is still staring, his mouth hanging half open. He's different in the same almost unnoticeable way Misty is, taller, his shoulders wider, a faint shadow of stubble on his chin. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down; then closes his mouth and opens it again as if trying to speak, but no sound comes out. Misty's hand brushes his arm.

"...Maybe you should sit," she says. He looks at her, then at him again, then nods.

"Yes," he manages to get out. "Maybe I should."

He reaches the armchair in front of the couch and falls down on it. His eyes scan him up and down, as if trying to make sense of what they're seeing, and he shakes his head. "Just—say there's some explanation for this."

"There is," says Misty. She nervously twiddles her fingers behind her back and bites her lip, looking at him. "Do you—want me to tell him? So you don't have to say all that again."

"No, it's—fine," he assures her, although he isn't all that sure himself. His stomach has crumpled to a knot. Brock is waiting.

Misty watches him for a moment still; then walks to the couch and sits next to him. The cushions sink slightly under her weight.

He swallows and breathes in. "I was kidnapped," he says for the second time, looking away. It comes out of him a little more easily now that he's already found the words once, and the rest of the story does too. Maybe if he keeps repeating it eventually it'll be just that, a story, and he won't see Giovanni's grin as he talks, won't hear the whistle of whips. Won't hear someone else's cries. Misty's breath hitches in her throat as he gets to the beatings, and out of the corner of his eyes he sees her hold her arms tight around herself. Brock doesn't speak.

He repeats to him everything he told Misty last night. About how he started doing what Giovanni wanted, about the reason Giovanni wanted him, too, even if that one word feels like broken glass in his mouth. Not about the scars. Those at least he can keep hidden this time.

There's silence when he's done talking, and he can't get himself to look up. "...I heard knocking on the door last night," Misty finishes for him after a second. "I went to look and I found him standing there."

Still not a word. When he forces himself to take his eyes off the carpet Brock is still staring. As he watches he reaches up and rubs the bridge of his nose, breathing out, and he can see his hand is shaking.

"Who—" he finally articulates. "Who else knows about this...?"

"No one does yet, except you and me," Misty says. "Well, and my pokémon."

Brock lowers his hand and looks at him again. "Your mother doesn't know anything?"

And he knew it was only a matter of time before he or Misty brought that up, but still his stomach crumples harder and something inside him feels about to break in two. She answers for him again: "Not yet. I—I thought about calling her, but I wanted to talk with you fir—"

"Don't call her," he squeezes out of his throat. She stops.

"...But we have to tell her, Ash."

"I— _know_. Just—not yet."

They both look at him. He takes a breath, trying to loosen the knot in his gut. "It's just—she never told me anything. About Giovanni."

"I'm sure she just wanted to protect you," Misty says after a moment. Something like a choked burst of laugh comes out of his chest.

"Yeah, it worked great, didn't it?"

Silence. Misty and Brock look at each other and he digs his nail deeper into the fabric of the couch. "You can't... blame her for this," she whispers then, and he bites his lip hard enough to hurt.

"I'm not. I just—can't see her. Not yet."

"She's your mother, Ash," says Brock. His voice sounds weary. "She needs to know that you're alive."

"I _know!_ "

Another pause. Then Misty sighs and shakes her head a bit, tucking her hair behind her ear. "...Okay. It's fine, we can talk about it later. Right?" She locks eyes with Brock, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Brock, we need to figure out what we're going to do. Ash said Giovanni might be looking for him."

"He is," he remarks, grim. Brock purses his lips.

"Can't we just—go to the police for help?"

She sighs again. "Apparently we can't."

"There's no _apparently_ ," he snaps. He thinks of everything Giovanni told him, showed him. She recoils a little.

"Okay, fine. I do believe what you told me. It's just—you haven't told me a lot, you know?"

"A lot about _what?_ " Brock tries to understand. Misty looks at him.

He breathes in again. "Team Rocket has people inside the police," he explains, for the second time. "And not just there. Pretty much anything you can imagine, they control it to some degree. Giovanni is just—he's the tip of the iceberg, but the organization's existed for longer than he's been alive. They're everywhere. There's no way to be safe from them."

His voice hitches slightly on the last couple syllables. Misty is silent for a moment; then leans closer and brushes the back of his hand. He tries not to jerk away from her touch and only half-manages it, but her hand stays, her fingers gently closing on his.

"There has to be one. And we're gonna find it. Okay?"

He wishes he could believe it. Brock brings a hand to his head again.

"Alright," he says. "I'm just—gonna need this whole conversation to go a little more slowly. Can we take a step back?"

"Yeah," he grumbles. Brock stares at the carpet for a second, as if trying to collect his thoughts; then turns back to them.

"What about the body?" he wants to know. "Who was that? How did we not... know it wasn't you?"

Misty's teeth sink hard into her lip. "Giovanni probably had the tests faked," Ash answers. "Dunno who it was. Some kid. I just know Giovanni wanted to make sure no one would ever come looking for me."

Brock sinks into his armchair, his face drained of color. "Arceus," he mutters. "Alright. What about—Giovanni? How can he be your father?"

He shrugs a little. "He and my mom met when they were young. He wasn't the head of Team Rocket then, his mother was. But he was a high-ranking official. My mom didn't know at first. He wanted her to join the Team as well, but instead when he told her the truth about who he was she never wanted to see him again. But then he—"

His voice catches, stuck halfway out of his throat. He swallows. "...He kept watching her, and he found out she was pregnant. He never sought her out again and she thought he was really going to leave her— _us_ , in peace, but instead he had a plan all along. He was waiting."

Misty's hand is still around his. She tries to give his fingers a gentle squeeze, but he thinks of the other things Giovanni told him, and how he proved them to be true; and pulls his hand from her grasp.

"So he was planning to force you to join Team Rocket all along?" Brock asks. He nods.

"Yeah. Well, he watched me. I dunno, maybe at first he thought eventually I'd decide to join myself. But I think he enjoyed it more this way."

"And—your mother never said anything at all about him?"

"Nope. She always told me my dad was a pokémon trainer who went on a journey."

He curls up a bit, wrapping his arms around his knees. Brock and Misty both say nothing, and in the silence his nails tear at his skin.

"He's gonna want me back. Wouldn't surprise me if he knew where I am already. I shouldn't have come here."

"Quit saying that," sighs Misty. Brock thinks for a moment, sucking his lower lip against his teeth.

"Where were you when you escaped?"

"Not far from here. I was sent on a mission. There were a bunch of Giovanni's men who were supposed to guard me, but I—got pretty good with some of the things he taught me, so I managed to distract them and run. Took me a couple days to get here."

Misty frowns: "Wait—a couple days?"

He glances at her. "Yeah?"

"You didn't _tell_ me."

"You didn't ask."

"And it didn't cross your mind to mention that you were on the run for _a couple days_ , with—an open wound and—?!"

He rolls his eyes. "It's nothing, I told you. It's just a scratch. I've had much worse."

He says it without thinking, not meaning to hurt her, but her face kind of falls apart at his last words and she stares at him for a second before turning away and biting her lip harder, tears glistening in her eyes. Brock breathes in and out again, slowly.

"...Okay. It's a good thing you came here, Ash. Misty is right, there's gotta be a way to keep you safe and we're gonna find it."

"You don't _need_ to keep me safe," he retorts. His nails dig deeper into the skin of his arm, leaving marks. "It's what I've been trying to tell her all along. Just—let me leave and I'll find somewhere to hide or something, and the two of you won't be in danger."

"Yeah, great plan," she grumbles. "It's not like you've been telling us about how these people tortured and brainwashed you and how—they have spies in the police and whatever other freaking place we can imagine. You can totally just _hide or something_ while we sit here and do nothing at all. That's not a bad strategy at all!"

Her voice shakes. There's silence for a couple moments, her hurt lying between them like a wall; then Brock raises his hands.

"Alright, guys. Come on. I'm sure we can figure this out without fighting."

"Not if he keeps being this stubborn," she remarks. She sniffles and angrily wipes her eyes. Ash lets out a sigh.

"Fine, sorry. You got a better idea?"

She doesn't. Brock drums his fingers on the armrest.

"Do you think Team Rocket—I mean Jessie, James and Meowth, do you think they had anything to do with all this?"

He shrugs. "I never saw them."

"I don't think they did," says Misty. He gives her a curious look, but she adds nothing else. Brock drums his fingers again, thinking.

"Perhaps they might know something that could help? Like, I don't know, some piece of information about Giovanni that we could use to our advantage?"

"Maybe? Why, do you think they'd wanna help?"

"I'm sure we could convince them. Now if only we could figure out how to get a hold of them..."

Misty sniffles again and looks up. "I might know, actually. Brock, remember what I told you? About the packages?"

He nods. Ash shakes his head a bit.

"What packages?"

"You'll see. Well, I don't know if it'll work, but I'm gonna try tomorrow."

"Well, we have a first step at least," Brock sighs. "That's something."

He stares puzzled at both of them. Before he can ask more, though, Brock has another question.

"Ash, anyway... how are you—feeling? I mean, after everything you've told us..."

He doesn't know what to answer. _Feeling_ wasn't really something Giovanni wanted him to do. He tries a checklist: he's all in one piece, more or less. He's not spitting blood on the floor of a cell. If he doesn't do what he's told he probably won't get his senses beaten out of him. That's gotta be worth something, after all, so he shrugs again.

"I'm fine," he answers; but the words sound strange in his mouth, like it's not really his voice he hears.

***

Misty insists he sleeps in her bed for tonight. _Insists_ for a bit, at least, then sighs and says she'll sleep in her sister's room anyway, he can do whatever he wants.

So he takes her bed, but tries hard not to fall asleep. The dark makes him nervous; he keeps expecting to hear Giovanni's footsteps along the hallway, and he folds himself around his knees and pulls Misty's blanket over his head, because if he does his best to disappear maybe he won't find him.

He's already slept this morning, and he's gone nights without sleeping before, so this shouldn't be hard. But the exhaustion from two days spent walking and running with nothing to eat and with a wound that kept opening up again and bleeding and _hurting_ still hasn't worn off, and he manages to jerk himself awake a few times before the room begins to slip from his grasp. His eyes shoot wide open again, his heart hammering loudly in his back. Somewhere a clock strikes three. _I won't fall asleep_ he tells himself. _I won't fall asleep. I won't_

_fall_

_(awake I'm awake I won't fall asleep I)_

" _You know, I don't think we're as different as you want to believe,"_ Giovanni says. He knows he's right, because he's shown him what he can force him to do. Behind him are shadows of men in black uniforms. The tip of the whips clicks against the floor.

" _But perhaps you'll see it too with a little more convincing,_ no? _"_

He grits his teeth and waits. The whips cut through the air. Then there's a voice tearing through the dark, and fingers grasping his shoulder and shaking him awake as the voice keeps calling—Ash, Ash, Ash—and the instinct Giovanni planted into him kicks in and he rolls to his back to strike the attacker. But before he can do it there's arms around him, stopping him, holding him still. He struggles and elbows the shape; then the voice becomes a whisper, shh, it's okay, it's just me, calm down, and the hold is a hug and Misty's fingers stroke his arm up and down. "It's just me. Shh. It's okay."

"Let go—" he manages to squeeze out. She does. His heart is a throbbing lump in his throat. He rolls away from her, his brow clammy with sweat.

"I told you not to do that," he mutters between gasps. He's got to have hit her; he felt it. The mattress sinks a little as she moves.

"I know. I heard you scream all the way from my sister's room."

"It's—dreams. I _told_ you."

"I know," she says again. She doesn't leave. He wraps his arms back around himself and stares at the wall, listening as the furious hammering in his chest slowly begins to revert to a quieter hiccup.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asks after a bit. He sinks his head between his shoulders.

"No."

"I won't touch you," she promises. "I'll just be here. Just so you're not alone."

And almost all of him wants to shout at her to go away, that she doesn't deserve to see this, that _he_ doesn't deserve her there, not after everything he's done. But there's a bit of him that desperately wants her to stay, and for a moment it manages to scream louder than everything else.

He pulls his knees closer to his chest. "If you want."

There's silence for a second, then he feels her lie down behind him. "Do you want the light on?" she asks. He shrugs.

"No. Doesn't matter."

The mattress wobbles a little again and there's the click of the switch, and the room disappears once again into black. It's different now, though, because she's there and he can hear her breathing quietly, and the dark is still unnerving but not quite as suffocating as before.

They don't talk. He stares at the numbers on the clock on her nightstand, moving slowly from 3.42 to 3.43 to 3.44; and after a while imagines outstretching one arm behind his back and finding her hand. But Giovanni took everything he was, little by little, and left nothing but darkness in its place. He can feel it almost like a physical thing, a weight at the center of his body, like he could follow the shape of it under his fingers. If he touches her maybe he'll stain her too.

So he keeps his arms around his knees and doesn't move. The night seems to go on forever, even with her by his side; but no more nightmares await.

***

" _I must admit, I'm impressed," Giovanni says. His voice filters through the pain and the haze, slithering across the cell. "I expected you to put up a fight, but I didn't think you'd last this long. But you see, there's something I've learned about people. It's that it matters nothing how stubborn they are, nor how brave, how strong or how good they think they can be. Sooner or later, they break."_

***

The next morning she tapes together several pieces of paper to make one big sheet. _GET YOUR ASSES HERE_ she writes on it in big letters with a sharpie. _I KNOW YOU'RE AROUND._

He shakes his head, watching her. "What are you doing?"

"Sending a message," she says with a slight grin. He's not following.

"A message to who?"

She puts down the sharpie and brushes a strand of hair back in place. "Well, when I first came back here, not long after you—"

"...died?" he finishes when her voice falters. She sighs a bit.

"...yeah. You know, things weren't—I wasn't feeling that great at first. And well, one morning Daisy comes into my room and says she found a package on the door and it's got to be for me because she and the others aren't expecting anything. So I open it and there's cookies inside."

"Cookies...?"

"Yeah. At first I thought maybe Brock or your mother sent them, but it was strange, because the package said nothing, not even my name, and then I realized it didn't come with the mail because it was too early. Someone had to have left it there during the night."

He's still not sure what she's getting at. He frowns as she goes on: "Anyway, a few weeks later I found another, still with nothing written on it and still left on the door in the middle of the night. This time there was cake. I still had no idea who could have left them, but I decided I'd try to keep an eye on the window for a while, to see if I spotted anyone. And guess what I saw one night."

He gives a shrug. "What?"

"Team Rocket's—I mean Jessie, James and Meowth's balloon, hovering just above my front door. And lo and behold, the next morning there was another package outside."

Ash blinks. "...Team Rocket brought you cookies?"

"Yeah. And cake." She laughs a little. "I think they were meant to be little 'feel better soon' gifts."

"But—why would they do that...?"

"I think deep down those three pests cared about us a lot more than they'd have ever admitted," she says. She's silent for a moment; then lets out another small sigh. "That's why I don't think—they had anything to do with what happened to you. They were... actually sad and worried. I don't think they knew."

He looks at the writing on the sheet. "And what are you gonna do with that?"

"Once in a while I still find something when—things are a bit rough, so I'm pretty sure they're still keeping an eye on me from time to time. I'm gonna hang it outside. With some luck they'll happen to be actually around."

Ash keeps staring at the big sharpie letters and bites the inside of his cheek. "...And what if you're wrong? What if they knew, and the gifts were because they felt guilty or something?"

"Then I'll kick their asses so hard that they'll regret having been born," she replies without missing a beat, and from the way she almost spits out the last couple words he's sure she means it. Then she picks up her message and stands. "Come."

She hangs the sheet out of the window of the top floor, so that it lies on the roof of the gym. Wind scrunches it up a bit at the edges, and it blows her hair on her face too; and she puffs her cheeks and tries to adjust both, grumbling a curse under her breath. He watches her and tries again to spot the differences. If he squints and tries not to think it's almost like they aren't there, and the past year never happened at all.

Almost.

(He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. The same slight, barely-there changes or something else.)

She rips a last chunk of tape with her teeth and sticks it to one corner of the message, then rights herself, and her eyes quickly scan the clear sky before she closes the window. He shrugs a bit.

"Now what?"

"Now we wait," she answers. Then turns around and sniffs the air. "Hey, I think Brock made breakfast. You hungry?"

And it's so _normal—_ the tone of her voice, Brock making breakfast—that for a second he doesn't quite know how to reply. He blinks. "I guess."

She smiles and her fingers brush his arm for the briefest moment as she walks past him.

"Let's go then."

***

" _Please."_

_He doesn't know anymore how long it's been. A month, maybe; maybe less. Maybe there's never been anything but this. The words hurt like claws along his throat, but he squeezes them out anyway, and maybe a sob tumbles out of him too, or more than one. He's only giving him what he wants to hear, he tries to tell himself, only until he can figure out how to get away from here. He tastes blood and sick as he swallows._

" _Please. I'll do it. I'll do what you want. Enough. Please."_

_Giovanni smiles._

***

They do get the message. He didn't think it would actually work, yet by sunset there's a familiar, Meowth-shaped balloon hovering at a not-at-all-suspicious distance from the gym. He blinks a couple times, peering at the orange sky from behind the curtain.

"I can't believe it."

"See, I was right," Misty grins, and all three stare at the balloon for a while. After a couple minutes he gives a shrug.

"Well, why aren't they coming down?"

"...I imagine this must look pretty weird."

Another ten minutes later the balloon still hasn't moved, and she sighs loudly, writes _YES, I'M TALKING TO YOU_ on another piece of paper and hangs it next to the other. There's another long pause, and squinting he thinks he can see some sort of commotion going on inside the basket; then the balloon slowly starts descending.

They go back downstairs. He balls his fists a little and listen to the echo of their footsteps along the hallway, trying not to think about how dry his mouth suddenly feels.

Misty opens the back door by a crack, a pokéball in one hand ("Just in case," she said, calling back Gyarados from the pool), and they watch the balloon land on the grass. Jessie gets out of the basket first and brings her hands to her hips, warily looking left and right as she takes a couple steps forward. Behind her James is busy fiddling with the burner. Ash's nails dig into his palms.

He can see the red _Rs_ on their shirts. He thinks of the same _Rs_ on black uniforms, thinks of the cracking of knuckles, the whistle of whips; and all of a sudden his throat is even drier than before, like sand, and his insides crumple together and his breath isn't coming out quite right. It's just a letter, and it's just Jessie, James and Meowth, he can _tell_ , but his body won't listen.

"Ash?" Misty is looking at him, frowning slightly. "Everything okay?"

He swallows and nods. She doesn't seem convinced.

"They're not going to hurt you. Even if they try, I'll—"

"No, I— _know_ ," he stops her. His throat feels tight. "It's just—"

_the uniforms_. But he can't say it out loud, it already sounds idiotic enough in his head. Misty watches him for a moment still, then shakes her head a bit and turns to meet Brock's eyes.

"Want us to go talk to them first while you wait here?"

He presses his lips together and swallows again. "I just—need a second. You go. I'll reach you outside."

"Are you sure you're gonna be alright?" Brock asks. He nods one more time.

"Yeah. Just go."

They look at each other for another moment, then do. Misty's eyes linger on him as she walks out of the door.

He presses his back against the wall once they're out of sight, breathing slowly in and out. The knot in his insides gives a little after a minute. He waits for a few seconds still, to be sure, then stands back straight.

It's just a letter on a damn shirt.

He walks outside. The trio's eyes follow the noise of the door slamming closed behind him, turning towards him at once. He takes a few steps forward and then stops, looking straight at them.

There's a pause. Their eyes grow wide as recognition sinks in. Then all at once Jessie and James throw themselves in each other's arms, shrieking "Oh, Mew, a _ghost!_ " in the exact same moment, and Meowth brings his paws to his mouth and lets out a high-pitched scream. It's so completely ridiculous that he forgets about the tightness in his throat, and his fists fall loose.

"Quit it!" Misty snaps, crossing her arms. They look at her, then back at him, then at her again.

James points a shaky finger at him. "But—but—but—you can see him too, right? You—"

"He's not a _ghost_ , you cretins!" she yells. James shakes his head frantically, still pointing.

"But—but—he was _dead!_ "

"Well clearly no he wasn't," she retorts. Then takes a breath. "So I take you didn't know anything about this?"

Jessie and James turn to each other. Jessie's eyes dart back to him: "Know about—what? Of _course_ we didn't, what—what's even going on?!"

Misty raises the pokéball in her hand, her thumb lingering on the release button. "Are you _sure?_ Because I'm pretty sure my Gyarados would love to get the truth out of you if you happen to be lying."

"Wait!" They both turn back to her, letting go of each other and raising their hands in surrender. "We don't know anything," Jessie swears. James and Meowth nod furiously in agreement. "Whatever it is that you think we know, I can assure you, we don't."

She doesn't lower her hand. She turns to Brock instead: "Brock, do you think we should trust them?"

He pretends to think about it for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe you should call Gyarados out, you know, just to give them a taste. Just to be sure."

"Be sure of _what?!_ Wha—why do you even think we know anything about... whatever you're talking about?!"

Misty shrugs. "Oh, I don't know. Does the fact that it was Team Rocket's doing ring any bell? You know, Team Rocket, the organization you're a part of?"

There's silence for a moment. James keeps his hands up. "...Listen, kid, we don't actually know a lot about what goes on in the team, y'know? We and the boss, huh, we haven't exactly been on great terms for ages."

She studies them for a bit still. Then shakes her head a little and slips the pokéball into her pocket. "Fine. Let's say I believe you. For now."

For a handful of seconds no one speaks. A stronger gust of wind rustles the trees, blowing a plastic bag across the grass and slipping cold fingers down Ash's shirt.

"...So, anyone care to explain what's going on?" Meowth finally asks. Misty bites her lip and looks at Brock and then at him, then sighs.

"We need your help."


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> Lyrics! This time they're from "Long & Lost" by Florence + the Machine, which helpfully came out while I was writing this chapter. Thank you, Flo. I appreciate that.

They show the trio in, and sitting on a chair she brought in from the kitchen Misty bites the inside of her cheek and listens as Ash tells his story again. It doesn't hurt any less.

"Your boss had me kidnapped."

He managed to hold back the anger in his voice a little when he repeated it to Brock. This time he doesn't try, or at least not as much, and his eyes pierce right through the three of them before running back to the carpet. She thinks of the way he told the story to her for the first time, and how he almost spat out the words once he found them, not really holding back then either: _you wanted to know, right?_

The look on Jessie, James and Meowth's faces goes from confused to shaken as he talks. James' shoulders drop as if taking a blow. Jessie presses her fingers to her lips and there's a moment when Misty thinks she can see her blink back tears. When Ash is done the room is silent for a long while; then James shakes his head slowly.

"...Mew, kid, I'm—I'm so sorry," he stammers. And if she was already pretty convinced that they had nothing to do with it now she feels sure enough just by seeing their reactions, but she still has to ask.

"So you didn't know? Are you absolutely sure? Because if I find out you did I swear I'll—"

Jessie's eyes dart towards her. "Of course we didn't know," she cuts her off. "What kind of... people do you think we are? Okay, we might have tried to steal Pikachu _a few times_ , but this..."

She turns back to Ash and her face scrunches up a little. "...come on, even _we_ aren't this bad."

"Yeah, we would have done something," James adds. He lets out a sigh. "Honest, kid, we've been such complete failures for so long that the boss can't even stand to look at us, he doesn't let us in on his plans. We didn't know."

"Fine," she concedes. She looks at Brock, who gives a slight nod. Ash keeps watching the carpet, his arms crossed, and she lets a couple moments pass before she asks: "Ash? What do you think?"

He glances back at the trio and shrugs. "Guess I believe them."

She nods an okay and purses her lips, trying to figure out what to say next. James stares at Ash, blinking.

"...So you're the boss's kid?" he asks. Ash shoots him a glare.

"Yeah. What, didn't I say it loud enough the first time?"

"Yeah. Sorry." James brings one hand behind his head, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Just—trying to make sense of this whole thing. It's—kinda weird to think about, y'know?"

"Tell me about it," he grumbles. Meowth gives a sort-of shrug.

"But what did he make you _do?_ "

Ash's breath catches. The silence in the room feels suddenly palpable, almost suffocating, and he shuffles uncomfortably on the armchair and presses his lips in a thin line. Misty sees his shoulders tense up under Brock's too-big shirt and wants to smack Meowth's face for asking the same question she's been tossing back and forth in her mind for two days. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor at his feet.

"Let's—get to the reason we wanted to speak with you, shall we?" Brock intervenes. "We were hoping you could help us."

"Help you how?" asks Jessie. Ash breathes out.

"Giovanni is—I know he's looking for me. And he's told me everything about how big the team really is, about... the people inside the police and the government and all that."

"We need to find a way to keep Ash safe from him," she adds. She can see him puff his cheeks a little. "We can't go to the police for help, so we were hoping maybe you might have some information we could use against him or something like that. I don't know, maybe—know about some weak spot he has."

Said out loud it sounds a lot more like a wild shot in the dark than she'd hoped. Jessie and James look at each other. James sucks his lips against his teeth after a moment and glances back at them.

"Maybe—hm..."

"Maybe what?" she urges. He looks at Ash.

"The boss told you about how Team Rocket has people everywhere, yeah? Well, that's true. But perhaps there might be a couple things he, huh, forgot to mention."

"Like what?"

"Well, see, yeah, Team Rocket is _huge_. And in theory, yeah, he controls all of it. But in practice it's—well, way too big for one single person to be aware of everything that happens within it."

Ash frowns slightly. "What's that mean?"

James purses his lips again and seems reluctant to go on. He turns to lock eyes with Jessie, who sighs and picks up where he left: "It means that not everyone is as content just following his orders as he'll have you believe. There's lots of people who yeah, keep up appearances by pretending to follow his lead blindly like everyone else, but actually care way more about their own gain. Lots of people who wouldn't mind seeing him overthrown, too."

"How do you know?" Ash asks. She shrugs and leans against the back of the couch, crossing her legs.

"Just the kinda thing you start to hear about after you've been part of the team for a while," she replies. Then realizes what she's said and her brow furrows a bit. "...Well, not if the boss has his eyes on you constantly like I suppose he did with you, maybe. But if you've spent your time on the sidelines."

"How does this help us?" Brock wants to know. Jessie turns to look at him and shrugs again.

"You asked for information, that's information. You didn't say we also had to know what to do with it."

"Yeah, if you were expecting us to have some magic immediate solution I'm afraid we're gonna disappoint," James echoes, his shoulders slumping lower. Misty bites down on her lip.

"These people you talked about, do you—actually know any of them?"

He blinks. "Yeah, a few maybe."

"Do you think any of them might ever be willing to help us?"

Ash's eyes shoot towards her. "What, are you crazy? Do you even know what kind of people you're talking about?"

"Yeah, I think I have a vague idea at this point," she retorts, then turns back to James. "Can you answer my question?"

"Uh—" He frowns. "Well, for nothing, I doubt it. Perhaps if you had something to offer."

"No," Ash insists. "We're not doing this."

Misty glances at him again. "Do you have a better idea? Because if you do now is as good a time as any to mention it."

"I already told you my idea."

"Oh, yeah, _hide or something_ , how could I forget. That's so much better."

"Better than—seeking help from someone that for all we know might be even worse than Giovanni? Yeah, you can bet it is."

"Guys," Brock sighs. He closes his eyes for a moment and rubs the bridge of his nose, like to stop an incoming headache; then looks at the trio. "If—theoretically we decided to do this, what kind of offer would we even be talking about? What, money? Pokémon?"

"I can't believe you're considering this," Ash grumbles. Jessie and James turn briefly to each other again.

"Hard to say," James replies with a shrug. "You'd basically be asking people to put themselves actively against the boss. Kinda hard to convince someone to do something that might get 'em killed."

"What if we offered help?"

All the eyes in the room turn towards her. Jessie's brow furrows slightly. "What kind of help do you mean?"

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and bites her lip one more time. Her stomach twists at the idea of what she's about to say, but she forces the words out of her chest still, doing her best to keep her voice firm: "You said some of these people want Giovanni overthrown. What if we offered to help with that?"

Ash slams his hand against the armrest. " _No,_ " he says again. There's a tremble under the harsh surface, like thin cracks on the ice. "We're not doing this. You're not—getting involved in this."

"I'm involved already, Ash. And if there's something I can do to help you I will, so get it out of your head that I'll just sit here and watch."

"We're not taking any unnecessary risks," Brock steps in. "We're just talking about it for now, alright? Would this even be a viable option?"

Jessie taps a finger to her lip, thinking. "Well, it might, maybe. The support of a gym leader might be tempting to some. Not to mention that of the boss's own son." She looks at Ash. "By the way, kid, I know you might have a hard time believing this after what you went through, but not everyone in the team is that bad."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's full of great people," Ash scoffs. She raises her eyebrows.

"I didn't say all of them. Trust me, there's plenty of assholes who are perfectly happy doing what they do. But there's also lots of people who joined because they didn't have a choice, or because they didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Yeah, and then there's us. We aren't so bad," Meowth adds. Ash glares at him and says nothing.

Brock drums his fingers on his knee. "Could you get us in touch with some of these people?"

"Perhaps." Jessie gives another small shrug. "It might take some time, though."

Ash shakes his head and shuffles again on the armchair. "This isn't—we aren't doing this."

"We aren't _doing_ anything for now," Brock tries to reassure him. "We won't be doing anything until we're sure it's safe, how about that? I'd rather avoid this too. But we need a strategy and this is the only one we have for now, it might be worth a shot."

He sinks his teeth into his lip. Misty leans over a little.

"It's gonna be alright. I promise, okay?"

"You can't _promise_ that," he snaps. Then shakes his head again, grumbles "this is stupid" and stands up, and balls his hands tight into fists before storming towards the door.

"Ash—" she tries to call him. She half-stands as well, but Brock gently closes one hand on her arm, holding her back.

"Give him a minute. I think—this is kind of a lot we're asking him to put up with, considering."

"But—" His sudden absence makes her stomach crumple a bit harder, even if he's probably just in the hallway. She breathes in. "Okay. Fine."

Brock turns back to the trio. "So can you do it? Can you get us in touch with these people?"

Jessie nods. "Yeah. You sure you wanna do this?"

He thinks about it for a moment still, pursing his lips. Then lets out a sigh.

"Yeah. We're gonna try."

***

She tells the trio they can crash at the gym for the night if they want to. They refuse after some awkwardness, saying they'll sleep outside on their balloon and promising they'll keep an eye out for anything suspicious.

She walks to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water afterwards, her stomach still not entirely unknotted. Brock's voice almost makes her jump.

"Think anything good is going to come from this?"

He's standing on the door, one hand nervously stroking the back of his head. He looks tired. She sighs a little, looking down at her glass.

"I don't know, Brock. What else can we do? Do you have any other idea? Because I really don't."

"Yeah, me neither," he says. He sighs too, then walks to the table and sits down. "If everything Ash said about Team Rocket is true I don't really know what other alternatives we could have."

She finds nothing to reply. He's silent for a bit, his eyes wandering towards the floor; then shakes his head and looks back at her. "How do you think he is, by the way? I mean..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Misty presses her lips together. "I don't know," she says again after a moment, and her voice cracks just slightly this time, unsteady at the foundations. "How can you even—how could anyone even... feel after something like that, after being—tortured and forced to do who even knows what for a _year_? Is that something you can imagine?"

"No, it's not," he agrees. His glance trails off once more. He takes a breath and releases it slowly, resting his chin against his hand. "What about—you?"

She blinks. "What about me?"

Brock looks at her. "Are you okay? I mean this is... this isn't easy."

She doesn't have an answer. Something inside her that was barely holding together feels about to finally crumble to pieces. "I don't—Brock, is this really happening?"

"It is," he sighs. Misty bites her lip.

"Then how did—how did we not _know_? How did we go all this time without knowing that he was alive?"

He says nothing for a few seconds. "There was no way we could have known," he whispers then. "There was a dead body, Mrs. Ketchum saw it. There were all those tests they did. There was a funeral and a grave and everything. There was no reason to suspect anything."

It sounds a little like he's trying to convince himself as well as her. Something like a half-sob finds its way out of her chest, and she bites her lip harder and presses a hand to her eyes. A few seconds later she hears the legs of the chair scrape the floor and Brock's hand closes around her shoulder, his thumb stroking it gently.

"Listen, we're gonna sort this out, okay? We're—we're gonna set things right."

She lowers her hand and looks at him. Her eyes burn. "But it won't change anything. Even this works, even if we can fight off Giovanni—it'll still have happened. All of it."

"I know. But we can still do our best to let Ash know that he's safe now and that nothing like that is ever going to happen to him again."

She sniffles a bit. Brock takes his hand off her shoulder and leans sighing against the edge of the table, his eyes drifting again towards the floor.

"We need to tell Mrs. Ketchum too," he says after a while like he just remembered. "We can't keep it from her. She needs to know that her son is alive, like, right now."

"Too bad Ash doesn't want to see her," she replies, grim. Then shakes her head: "I'll—I'm gonna go check on Togepi, then I'll try to talk to him. See if I can get him to change his mind."

"Fine. Just try—to be patient, okay?"

She rubs the corner of her eye and attempts a half-smile, not exactly managing it. "I'll try. He's not exactly making it easy."

"I know. I think it's not easy for him either."

He speaks softly, but his words still hit her hard enough to hurt. She swallows and nods.

"No, I—it's not. I know."

She sets the glass down in the sink and takes a breath. Out of the window the trio's balloon looms quietly, a darker shape against the night sky.

***

_Her fingers have been clasped on the edge of her chair for so long that they've gone numb. Officer Jenny's words bump edges in her mind like the wrong corners of a puzzle and next to her Delia staggers and presses her hands to her mouth like she's going to throw up, and all she can think is that it makes no sense, that the pieces don't go together; that the picture that comes out is all wrong and not really a picture at all._

" _You have to do the tests again," she hears herself say. There's a crack on the floor next to officer Jenny's shoe. Something somewhere feels like a wave, gurgling, swelling. Growing._

" _Misty—" Brock tries, but his voice is a whisper and he barely manages that one word. She keeps staring at the crack, her hands grasping the chair so hard they're starting to shake._

" _You_ have _to do the tests again."_

" _They've already been repeated," says officer Jenny. "There is no margin of error, I'm terribly sorry. We're certain it's him."_

_She looks up. The woman stands solemn and tight-lipped, her hands composedly behind her back."Then you're wrong. You're—you're lying."_

" _Misty," Brock says again. He means more than just her name, she can tell; he means don't do this, not now. But she turns and shakes her head, and her breath comes out in a broken puff that's not a sob but must not really be a breath either, because it feels as if there's no air at all in her lungs._

" _She's lying. She's—it's not him. He wasn't there, there's no reason why he should have been there! She has to be wrong!"_

_He has to see it too, he has to see that this makes no sense at all, that the body can't possibly be Ash's. But he doesn't. He just presses his lips together and looks at the floor._

_She turns back to officer Jenny. "I want to see him."_

_The woman shakes her head a little: "I can't allow it, for your own good. The body was in the water for nearly—"_

" _I want to see him!"_

_The wave crashes against the rocks, raising sprays of white foam, and suddenly she's trembling all over, not just her hands. She stands: "I want to see him, you have to let me_ see him _—"_

_Brock tries to hold her and she pulls her arm from his grasp. She's furious. At Brock; at officer Jenny, even at Delia and her quiet, held-together grief. Even at him for being dead. She thinks of shoving officer Jenny out of the way, thinks of grabbing that cursed plastic chair she's been sitting on for hours and throwing it against the floor. "You have to let me—"_

_Her throat is tight. She doesn't think she's crying, but her breath hitches in her chest and her words with it, and her legs shake and almost buckle under the crushing weight of her anger. Anger, that's it, that's all there is. Nothing else. "You have to—" she manages to stammer again in between gasps; and then there's arms, arms wrapping around her and folding her into a hug. Delia holds her to her chest, tight, so tight she can't even move, and Misty tries to tell her to let go, tries to scream it, but her face is pressed against the fabric of her shirt and all that comes out of her is sobs. Delia rocks her back and forth, not talking, her fingers running through her hair._

_The sobs won't stop coming. Something in her will break before this is over, she thinks: something will rip, her body can't possibly hold. Delia keeps her arms around her even if she was just told that the body found two days ago at the bottom of a river was that of her child, even if she should be the one falling to pieces on the floor. Even if she struggles and tries to pour on her all of her fury._

_She cries into her chest until there's nothing left in her._

***

Ash doesn't turn around when he hears Misty stop on the door. Instead he pulls his knees a little closer to his chest, biting the inside of his cheek.

There's a knock on the doorframe after a moment. "Can I come in?"

"It's your room."

"Right," she says. She hesitates for a few seconds still, then walks in and sits on the edge of the bed. He can feel the mattress sink even if he keeps not looking. "Still mad at me?"

"I'm not _mad_ ," he sighs. "I just—don't want you and Brock to put yourself in danger because of me."

"What if I told you that we won't do anything until we know for sure it's safe? Is that any better as a promise?"

He doesn't answer. Misty sighs and kicks off her slippers, pulling her feet on the bed as well.

"You're not alone in this, Ash, like it or not. Brock and I are in it too. And we're going to help."

He keeps his eyes on the wall and shakes his head. "You don't know what those people are like."

"You're right, I don't know," she remarks. "I can only try to imagine by looking at what—what they've done to you, but I'm sure I'm not even close. But that's one more reason I'm not going to leave you alone."

Ash says nothing again, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and for the hundredth time wishes he'd gone somewhere else. Even if the thought that she might be at the gym was what kept his legs moving at the end, even if without it maybe he would have fallen to his knees sometime through the second day and not gotten back up. Misty watches him for a bit—he can tell even without looking; he feels her glance like a prickle on his skin—and finally lets out another sigh.

"Ash, listen, there's—there's something else we still haven't talked about."

His gut clenches and he folds himself tighter around his knees, his teeth sinking more into his lip. "You mean telling my mom?"

"Yeah." She pauses again, as if looking for the right words. "I know you don't want to see her. I can—I mean, I can't _understand_ how you're feeling, not really, but I think I can see why. But we can't keep it from her for much longer. She's your mom. We can't let her think that you're dead when you aren't."

"Why not? She's better off not knowing anyway," he retorts, then bites his lip harder, like he could trap the words back into his throat. She seems taken aback for a second.

"What are you talking about?"

Something tumbles out of him anyway. "Like you. And Brock. You didn't need to know, you were okay. You were—better."

"...Now you're being stupid on purpose," she says. Ash gives her a quick glance.

"I'm not. I'm just saying things as they are. You had the gym and your Gyarados and everything. You were okay. Now you're going to do something dangerous and stupid and it's gonna be because of me."

_Do you think your friends would ever forgive you?_ , Giovanni asked him once, the corners of his lips folding into a grin as he spoke, and he looked down at the blood on his hands and knew the answer was no. Misty just stares at him. "...Do you honestly think we'd be happier thinking you're dead?" she asks after a bit, and her voice sounds heavy somehow, like she's hurting. And he thinks of the way she almost staggered when she saw his scars, of how she held her arms around herself as she heard the story.

He bites his lip again. "Yeah."

"Ash—" She leans closer and tries to lay a hand on his shoulder. He can't help flinching, and she stops and shows him her palms before lowering her hands back into her lap. "Okay. Sorry. Listen—yeah, maybe I was okay. That's kinda something you have to start doing after a while, you know? But you're an idiot if you think I'd ever pick _okay_ over knowing that you're alive."

He doesn't reply. She shakes her head. "And I know—Brock will tell you the same thing if you ask him. And your mom would too. And Pikachu. What about Pikachu, don't you want to see him?"

He does. He wants to see him with the same desperation that brought him to her door, and there's a part of him that wants to see his mom too, so badly that the thought hurts. But at the same time the idea of seeing her face when he'll tell her what the man she lied to him about his entire life did makes him want to throw up, so he doesn't say it. She waits for an answer for what feels like at least a full minute, then gives up and sighs one more time.

"I'm serious, Ash. None of us was _better_. And you need to stop thinking that right now or else I'm gonna—" She pauses, scrambling for her words. "...hit you with my pillow," is what she manages at the end. Ash blinks and turns to look at her after a moment.

"...Was that supposed to be a threat?"

"Yes."

"...I've heard more threatening things."

"You haven't met my pillow," she teases, a tiny smirk finding its way to her lips. And maybe he smiles back a little, he's not sure. "So what do you say? Think you can stand to see her?"

He turns back to the wall. "What do I even—do? Call her and just—what, go hey mom, I'm alive?"

"I think she should see you in person," she says, cautious. Ash glances at her again.

"You mean go to Pallet? It's kinda a long walk from here. I dunno if I'd make it there without getting caught."

"I thought about that. I was thinking maybe we could ask the trio to give us a ride on their balloon."

"...Us?"

"Yeah. I might trust them, more or less, but there's no way I'm leaving you alone with them."

He puffs his cheeks a bit. "I don't need a babysitter, y'know."

"How about a friend?" she sighs. He pulls his knees to his chest again and shakes his head.

"What about the gym? You gonna just leave it unattended?"

She bites her lip. "...Yeah, I might have to ruin my sisters' trip. This is—this is kind of an emergency situation after all, right? I'll call Daisy and see if she can come back."

"Great, as if there weren't already enough people who had a better time before I showed up," he grumbles. Misty stares at him for a second. Then leans over, grabs the pillow and smacks it right on his face.

"...Hey," he protest, trying to push it off. She whacks him again.

"I warned you. Now stop thinking that. Stop right in this instant."

She drops the pillow in her lap and crosses her arms. "You're getting our help, Ash Ketchum, like it or not. And if you keep thinking that we'd rather _not_ do it well, you're wrong. As ever."

He looks at her and he's not sure why despite his irritation and despite the fact that she just threw a pillow in his face there's a sort of flutter in his chest, a sort of warmth, a sort of— _something_ that for a long while he had forgotten along with how you can have a shower curtain with anemones on it or what a freshly cooked breakfast smells like. He wouldn't know how to turn that tingle into words even if he wanted to try, but if he did maybe it'd be something like _I missed you. I missed you so much._

"Everything alright in there?"

He turns. Brock is on the door, a steaming cup in each hand. Misty pushes a strand of hair away from her eyes.

"Yeah. We were just _discussing_."

Brock half-smiles and walks in. "I made some chamomile," he says, handing him one of the cups. "Here. It might help you sleep a little better."

He kind of doubts some tea is going to help much in that regard, but he takes it anyway. Brock gives the other one to Misty and sits down on the bed.

"I was saying that we should probably go to Pallet," she tells him. She blows on her tea. "I think—I think Mrs. Ketchum should see Ash when we tell her. I mean it's—not really something you can say over the phone, is it?"

"Probably not," he agrees. Ash warms his hands around his cup and says nothing. Brock looks at him: "What do you say, Ash? Think you can do it?"

His stomach crumples again. "Yeah," he manages to squeeze out, and Brock nods and he and Misty keep talking, keep discussing the details of the trip to-be, and their voices sound far away. Sound just out of reach. He keeps his hands around the cup even when it starts to hurt, too hot against his palms.

_Do you think your friends would ever forgive you?_ , Giovanni said. _If they saw you now, really saw you, if they saw what you've become? Do you think they'd want you back?_

He still knows the answer to that.

_is it too late to come on home?_

_are all those bridges now old stone_

***

It takes Misty a bit to work up the nerve to dial the number of Daisy's pokégear.

She slept in the same room with Ash, and this time he didn't wake up screaming but he still groaned and muttered half-words while he slept and jerked awake gasping over and over, and each time he curled up tighter under her blanket, a small trembling shape in the dark. She listened, hardly managing to get any sleep at all. When she looked in the mirror this morning she saw faint purple shadows under her eyes. Her sister is probably going to notice. She bites her lip as she listens to the dial tone, her fingers nervously pulling at the phone wire.

( _Please don't make me do this,_ Ash said at one point, and then something else she couldn't understand.)

Daisy answers after a while. She's half-yawning when her face appears on the screen, her hair up in a scrunched bun. "...'ello? Misty? What's going on? It's, like, six in the morning."

"I know," she sighs. "Sorry."

Her sister squints at the screen. "Are you okay? You look like, weird."

Misty scowls. "Thanks. Listen, um, I need to ask you a big favor."

"What favor?"

"I—need you to come back here."

Daisy's brow furrows. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," Misty adds quickly. "But it's—kind of an emergency. Something's happened and—I need to go somewhere."

"What do you mean something's happened?" Daisy wants to know. She shakes her head, her face scrunching up some more. "Is something wrong with the gym? Or with one of our pokémon, did like some of them get hurt or something?"

"No, Daisy, it's nothing like—"

"Did someone try to break in and steal them? Oh, Mew, are _you_ hurt? Do you—"

"Daisy—"

"—need to go to a hospital, because—"

"Daisy, Ash is alive."

There, she said it. Daisy stops talking abruptly and her eyes go wide on the screen. "...Sis', are you—like, okay?" she asks after a moment. "I—thought maybe leaving you all alone wasn't the best idea, but I didn't think—"

"I know it sounds like I've lost my mind, but I didn't," she grumbles, cutting her off. "He's actually here in the flesh. I'm not hallucinating. I can go get him if you want. And Brock's here too, he can confirm as well."

"But—" Her sister shakes her head again. Her forehead crumples, a thin line appearing at the middle. "They, like, found his body, right? And it was a year ago. How...?"

Misty sighs a bit. "It's—kind of a long story." And a painful one, and one she's not actually sure she'd manage to repeat without breaking down. "I'll explain better later. For now let's just say he was—kidnapped by Team Rocket and held a prisoner until a few days ago. They made us find someone else's body so we wouldn't suspect anything. Then he managed to escape and he came here."

Daisy stares at her. "...Wait, are you—actually being serious right now? Like, is this a thing that's actually happening? You're not making it up or something?"

"I'm not making it up."

"...Wow. That's like, totally crazy."

"As in _'wow, that's really weird but I believe you, sis'_ or as in _'I think you've gone completely insane'_?"

"A bit of both. But mostly the first one."

"Great." She sighs again. "Daisy, listen, Ash needs to get to Pallet to see his mother and I have to go with him. I can't leave him alone. But I can't leave the gym unattended either, so I need you to come back here. I'm sorry, I know I'm ruining your trip. I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need it."

Daisy keeps looking at her for a handful of moments, as if trying to determine if she really went bonkers. Then nods and pulls the corners of her lips into a smile.

"We can totally take another trip at some point, right? I'll let Lily and Violet enjoy the rest of this one. I'll be back there in a couple days."

She wasn't expecting she'd be so easily convinced, and she blinks, surprised. Then smiles back a bit. "Thank you."

Her sister waves a vague hand as if to say _it's nothing_. "Let's just say you owe me a favor, sis'. Now go take care of him or whatever you have to do."

There's a slight rush of heat to her cheeks. It was a forgotten sensation, and it takes her by surprise as well. "...What do you mean, take care of him?"

"Whatever," says Daisy. "Like, get ready to leave for Pallet or something."

"...okay. Seriously, Daisy, thank you."

"Don't mention it. See you there, sis'."

She hangs up and Misty does the same after a moment, and lingers for a bit with her hand still on the phone before breathing out, feeling as though at least a tiny part of the weight that was crushing her chest just faded. Then bends down to pick up Togepi, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"You don't _have_ to come, you know."

She nearly drops Togepi and quickly turns to find him looking at her. She frowns: "Were you listening to my phonecall?"

"I was in the hallway and I heard. Sorry. You don't have to come. Nor to take care of me or whatever."

"But I want to," she retorts. "And I will. Say whatever you want."

He doesn't say anything. She sighs one more time. "...Let's just eat some breakfast in the meantime, how about that?" she tells him; and he shrugs a little and then follows.

***

_It's been five weeks. She can feel the days pile on each other like sand, harsh and heavy, scraping red marks across her skin. Thirty-five of them. More than a month of him being gone._

_Daisy hovers by he door, a vague pink-gold shape at the corner of her eye. "...Hey, sis'?" she says after a bit. She huddles under her blanket a bit more. "Are you—feeling okay?"_

" _Yeah. I'm great. Can't you tell," she grumbles. Her sister hesitates for a moment and then walks in. She sits on the edge of her bed, fixing her blanket a little._

" _I wanted to bring you some hot chocolate," she tells her. "But I like, burned it."_

_Misty glances at her. "You_ burned _hot chocolate?"_

" _...Yeah."_

" _How—nevermind, don't tell me. I don't really care."_

_She looks back at the wall. The numbers of the digital clock paint a faded green glow around the corner of the nightstand. Daisy is silent for a while._

" _...Sis'?" she whispers then. "Can I—ask you something?"_

" _Yeah."_

" _Did you—I mean, were you—"_

_She doesn't go on. Misty turns to look at her again after a handful of seconds._

" _Was I what?"_

" _Were you—" Daisy says again. Then purses her lips, nervously twirling a strand of hair around her finger, and traps a sharp breath back in her throat. "Nevermind. It—it doesn't really matter anyway. Try to sleep."_

_She stands before Misty can ask more and hurries towards the door after throwing a fluttery smile in her direction. She could go after her and ask what she meant, but her limbs feel limp and boneless, too heavy to lift. She doesn't care enough._

_The sand keeps piling. It draws lines; ripples. Thirty-five days, thirty-six when she wakes up tomorrow. He's still not there. He still won't be when she gets up tomorrow morning, not even if she shuts her eyes as tight as she can and imagines with every bit of her strength that she'll open the door and find him there. She does it anyway._

_(Did you—?)_

***

Brock tells her he can take care of the gym for the couple days it'll take Daisy to get back home. She squeezes in time for a match against an opponent that's just showed up first; but her mind is elsewhere and she doesn't lose only because the kid is seriously unexperienced. Ash watches her from the bleachers, his elbows resting on his knees.

"I don't usually suck this much," she tells him with a sigh once the kid's gone. He looks surprised.

"You didn't suck."

"Yeah, I just almost gave away a badge for nothing. My sisters couldn't have done better."

"You didn't suck," he insists. He gives a slight shrug. "You looked kind of distracted, that's it. It was—nice. Seeing you battle."

No one else comes after that, so they leave in the afternoon. They decided earlier that James will take them to Pallet while Jessie and Meowth stay and try to get in touch with someone that might help with their plan, so they part behind the gym, the trio's balloon patiently waiting on the grass.

"Can you take care of Togepi as well?" she asks Brock. She bites her lip: "I have some of my pokémon with me, in case we need to defend ourselves from something,"—or someone—"but I'd rather know that Togepi is safe here."

He nods. "Be careful, though. The two of you need to be safe as well."

"I know." She glances at Ash, who's standing far enough not to hear their words. "I'll do my best."

He's silent as they get on the balloon. He grasps the edge of the basket with both hands as they take flight, his face taut and a little pale like maybe he's feeling sick. James notices as well, and gives him a concerned glance as he adjusts the burner.

"You okay there, kid?" he asks. He's taken off the shirt of his Team Rocket uniform. Ash keeps his eyes on the ground below them and presses his lips together.

"Yeah."

His hands are strained-tight on the edge, each tendon visible and tense. She thinks of taking one in hers, but figures he'll probably just jerk away from her touch again. Or he won't, but she'll feel him stiffen even more and know he wants to.

"...It's so weird to think about," James says after a bit. "All that time we were after you and your Pikachu and we had no idea you were the boss's kid."

"Stop calling me that," Ash retorts, sharp. James recoils slightly, blinking.

"Okay. Sorry. Just trying to kick off some conversation. Maybe it wasn't the best topic."

"Yeah, it wasn't," she sighs. Ash keeps looking down, towards the gym that's starting to look small.

They go on in silence. Her stomach crumples a bit as the city below starts to become hard to make out, a sea of rooftops as the horizon turns orange at the edge.

***

_but is it too late to come on home?_

It's a long trip, even via balloon. They stop for the night, and James lights a fire and says he'll keep watch if they want to try and get some sleep.

Ash sits away from the fire, his hands knotted around his ankles, and stares at the trees around the clearing with a prickle on the back of his neck. This darkness is scarier than the one in Misty's bedroom, because there at least he knew that whatever might come looking for him would be only in his head. Here it might not.

Leaves crackle under Misty's feet. "Everything okay?" she asks, stopping behind him. He rolls his eyes a bit.

"Yeah. Y'all don't need to keep asking."

"Fine," she sighs. She sits down next to him, tucking her chin in her hands; the light from the fire bounces on her hair. For a while they look at the trees together, without saying anything.

_Do you think your friends would ever forgive you?_

"I've hurt people," he says after a time. He didn't know he was going to until he does. He can feel her eyes run to him.

"...You were forced to," she reminds him. Ash sinks his teeth hard into his lip.

"But it doesn't change anything. I still did it. I still—remember doing it. They were still hurt."

She's silent for a moment. "You did the only thing you could do, Ash," she says then. "You didn't have a choice."

"I did," he retorts. "I chose their pain over mine. I tried to hold on for a while, but I didn't—I just didn't try _enough._ "

She doesn't say anything. She'll stand up and leave in a moment, he's sure of it, she'll be disgusted just like Giovanni said she would be. He closes his eyes and counts to five, holding his breath. When he opens them she's still there.

"...Ash—you were tortured," she whispers, and her voice falters a little, hitching slightly once or twice. "I don't know what you went through exactly but—you said you were beaten daily. You're covered in scars. There's—only so much pain a person can take."

He doesn't reply. Misty laces her fingers around her knees and breathes in and out. "Listen, you don't—you don't _have_ to tell me what Giovanni made you do if you don't want to. But if you ever _want to_ , I'll listen. And I promise—I _promise_ , Ash, that nothing you could tell me will make me think that you're a horrible person or that—I shouldn't help you or be your friend anymore or anything like that."

Ash bites his lip again. His throat is knotted so tight he almost can't breathe. "But you'll be hurt. I can tell you are, when—every time I say something about it. I can see it."

"Yes," she says. "Yes, you're right, I'm hurt. But I'm hurt because _you're_ hurt. Because you're my friend, and you went through something so—so awful and terrible that I can't even _try_ to imagine what it might have been like. Not because of anything you might have done."

He says nothing. The fire crackles and she sighs, and for a bit she just watches him. Then slowly, the way she might approach something that could bite her, she shifts closer and stretches one hand towards his. Her fingers brush his knuckles, slightly, barely there at all. And he let her glimpse at his darkness for a moment and she didn't turn away, so this time he lets her touch him, even if it takes all of his effort to keep the muscles of his whole arm from tensing up.

She closes her hand around his. She keeps it like that for a while.

"Let's just try to get some sleep now, okay?" she says finally. They do.


	5. Chapter 4

_He tries to run once._

_There's always at least five or six of them guarding him when Giovanni sends him out of the base, too many to even attempt, and the marks on his back are still fresh enough that he doesn't dare. It's no different this once. What's different this once is the girl._

_She's what sets him off. There should have been only the rich businessman here; instead there's his daughter, too (and it must be his daughter—her eyes are the same blue as the ones he saw go glassy as one of the men held his hand around his throat), and she must have heard the struggle in the hallway, and she can't be older than nine and she's huddled against the wall with tears streaking her face and her fingers clasped on the silver-colored fur of an Eevee. The shiny Eevee Giovanni wants._

" _Please don't take her," she sobs as he stands with a pokéball in his hand. And he stops._ I won't do this _he thinks, his stomach crumpled to a knot:_ doesn't matter what they do to me doesn't matter if they pull the whips again I won't do this. _But he hears the whistle they make when they cut through the air and his thumb lingers frozen on the release button, unable to let go._

_One of the men walks to the girl and forces her to her feet, and rips the Eevee from her arms as she screams and pleads with all her might. "Come on, shut her up," he tells Ash, his hand grasping her elbow so tight it looks as though it might snap like a twig. "Do it."_

_He doesn't. The man's eyes run to him, his disinterest quickly turning into impatience. He hands the pokémon over to one of the others and Ash is suddenly sure he's going to hurt her instead and it'll be far worse that anything he might have done. But instead the girl does something. Instead of crying some more she hurls herself at the man and sinks her teeth into his wrist, trying to free herself from his hold. And—_

_(one of them's distracted one's busy shoving the Eevee into a sack that only leaves three)_

— _he doesn't think._

" _Golbat, quick, use Screech!" he yells, and then throws the rest of his pokéballs too, all but one: "Them! Attack THEM!"_

_They do—they're trained to follow their handler's commands without question. The girl falls to the floor with a yelp when the man lets her go to fend off Golbat and for the briefest moment her eyes meet Ash's—and "RUN!" he tries to tell her, and then does the only thing he can do: he runs too. Behind him there's a shot and then another, and Golbat's screech ends with a gurgling noise and a thump. He doesn't turn back._

_He runs until he's outside and then until his legs feel like gelatin and his side hurts so badly that he tumbles to his knees and throws up, his heart about to explode. He hides then, one hand clutching the one pokéball he kept, curled up tight between the bushes and shaking all over and not even daring to think it—to think that he might have made it, that he might be free. Not even daring to breathe, almost, for fear that someone might hear._

_But by dawn there's footsteps and he doesn't get back to his feet fast enough. A hand claws at his wrist and pulls him up, and before he has time to do anything a fist collides with his face sending stars into his right eye and another doubles him over, and moments later he's on the ground again, coughing and trying to shield at least his face from the kicks._

_They drag him back to Giovanni's office. "Well, well. Aren't you a bold little thing," he comments, raising his eyebrows as he looks him up and down. "Or a stupid one. Do you want to know how we found you?"_

_He musters what little strength he has left to spit on the floor. Unimpressed, Giovanni nods to one of the men holding him upright and he hands him Raticate's pokéball, the one he didn't throw. The pokémon materializes in a bright red flash on top of Giovanni's desk. He runs a hand through the fur of its neck, revealing a tiny, pulsating green dot._

" _A locator," he explains. "It works from inside the pokéball, too. All my men had to do was follow it. Try again and I'll have to put one on_ you. _"_

_He leans against the back of his armchair with a grin. "But I'm sure it won't be necessary. Go. Teach him a lesson he won't forget," he says. Then adds: "And get this carpet cleaned. There's blood on it."_

_They do as he ordered._

_(He doesn't run again. But it's not only the pain that keeps him from trying.)_

***

Halfway through the afternoon the next day, squinting, he can make out the few rooftops of Pallet and the wind turbine of Professor Oak's lab at the top of the hill. He didn't think they'd be here this soon. His knees feel a little unsteady as the view unravels below, so he grasps the edge of the basket and tries to focus on breathing. In and out, in and out, in and out.

"Does it look like you remembered?" Misty asks, leaning next to him. He swallows a lump of air.

"Yeah," he manages to say. "Bit—smaller from up here."

His house comes into sight after a couple minutes. The last time he saw it was before they left for Johto, and his heart flutters as he recognizes the white picket fence and the tiny orange dot of the mailbox. There's flowers in the garden, little splashes of white and pink and some bright yellow in the corner, and he thinks of his mom kneeling down to water her plants, dusting soil-covered hands on her apron. But it feels too far away somehow, like it's not even a real memory, like maybe it's something he dreamed once; and the back of his eyes stings a bit when he blinks.

He doesn't cry, though. He can't remember when was the last time he did.

"Where d'you want me to land?" asks James. "Right by the house or somewhere a bit more, huh, discreet?"

"...Maybe it's—best if I talk to Ash's mother before she sees us," Misty answers after a second. Ash bites his lip.

"What are you gonna tell her?"

She lets out a little sigh, pushing back the hair the wind blew in her face. "I don't know. That—there's something she needs to know and it's—gonna be a lot to take in, I think. Or something like that. I mean there's—there's not a lot you can say to prepare someone for something like this, right?"

Right.

They fly past the house and towards a patch of trees. His throat squeezes shut as they start landing, and he sinks his teeth into his lip and clenches his hands tighter around the edge, until they're shaking and his knuckles have gone bone-white and the straw bites into his palms. Tree branches scrape lightly against the balloon. James mumbles an " _oookay_ , almost there", and below the grass gets closer and closer.

His heart jumps when the basket hits the ground. Misty's eyes turn to him.

"Ready?" she wants to know. The answer is _no_ , of course, but to say that first he should get his chest to work and that's a problem in its own right. She waits for a moment as he stares at what little he can see of his house from there, a corner of the white fence and a flowered vine spiraling around one of the pickets; then her fingers brush his arm.

"Breathe," she says. He appreciates the reminder. "We can wait a bit if you want."

"Maybe she's not home," he squeezes out. She turns towards the house.

"Well, only one way to find out."

He doesn't reply. It takes him a handful of seconds to finally be able to take in a ragged breath and nod.

"Okay," he whispers. And as he does a swarm of other _maybes_ crowds into his head: maybe she has someone over. Maybe she went out of town for a few days and they've come here for nothing. Maybe she's happy, and seeing him is only going to break her like it did Misty and Brock. Maybe she doesn't need to know.

"I'll be around," James says as they get off the balloon. "I'll keep an eye on the house if you want. But if you want my advice, kid, don't stay in Pallet for more than a couple days. If the boss is looking for you he's gonna look here."

Misty throws the backpack with her pokéballs over her shoulder. "If he shows up he's gonna wish he hadn't," she assures him, but Ash's stomach crumples into a ball because _he hadn't thought of that_ , he hadn't thought that he might have been here already, that he might have assumed he'd try to go straight home and not taken an 'I haven't seen him' as a satisfying answer. He looks frozen at the fence for a moment, images of broken glass and blood scattered across the hallway floor flashing before his eyes; and before he knows it his feet have unglued from the ground and he's almost-running towards the house. Misty hurries after him.

"Ash—wait. Hey—"

He stops and shakes his head, his hands tightened into trembling fists . "What if he's looked here already? What if he's—?"

He can't say it. The second of hesitation he hears tells him she hadn't thought of it either. "...Okay—wait. I'm sure she's fine. We'll find out in a minute, just let me go first."

He does—he's not sure if because she sounds reasonable or because he's afraid of what might be awaiting. They cut through the garden, and as they walk carefully past the kitchen window he stops again: there's a light inside. There's a light and the air smells sweet, smells of something cooking. He blinks a couple times.

"There's someone in."

"See, she's home. She's fine," Misty whispers. She turns towards the porch. "Wait here."

He presses his back against the wall while she rings the doorbell. There's silence for a bit and he holds his breath, his eyes fixed on a pair of yellow gardening gloves hanging on the fence. Then there's footsteps, and the click of the latch being pulled. And then—

"Oh, Misty, honey!" He can't see her from there. He wants to, so badly that his whole body aches, and just as badly he wants to hide his face against his knees and never look up again. Her voice furrows with a ripple of concern: "Is everything alright? I thought you'd be busy taking care of the gym."

A pause. "Hi, Mrs. Ketchum. Yes, it's—I'm okay."

"Do you need something?"

"No—well, it's—" Silence again. Ash bites the inside of his cheek. "There's—there's something you should know."

She blurts it out all at once. Another brief pause follows, then his mother's voice again: "What's it, honey? You're making me worry."

He can hear Misty take a breath. "The other night," she starts, "someone knocked on my door. Mrs. Ketchum, there's—someone you should see, and it's going to be—really hard to take in. But you really need to."

Another moment goes by, then there's footsteps on the porch. He recognizes the creak one of the wooden boards always gives and shuts his eyes for a second, every bit of him scrunched up tight. When he looks Misty has stepped off the porch and is nodding for his mother to come closer, her lip trapped between her teeth. And he doesn't know how he manages to lift his back from the wall and take a step forward.

His mother freezes in place the moment she sees him. Her mouth falls open and a tremble rattles through her, like waves hitting the rocks. She kind of looks like it, too, like she's a rock on the shore and all the tides and waves have taken away little pieces of her: she doesn't look like he remembered. Misty and Brock didn't either, but in her the differences are bigger, easier to spot. There's gray streaking her hair and her face looks older too, little lines and creases around the corners of her lips and her eyes. Her eyes—those are the only thing he can't look at.

She stares at him for a time that seems to stretch on forever. Then slowly, almost stumbling on her own steps, she walks to him and lays her hands on his cheeks. They're crinkled as well around the knuckles, he notices, like for her it wasn't one year and some change but five at least. His skin burns under her touch. There's a tremble stirring deep inside him too, like a scream pushing and pushing.

"Honey," she says. And he thinks: _you lied_. He thinks _you knew and you never said anything_. He thinks _mom_.

He bites his lip. But the words find their way out as soon as he tries to breathe, even if he didn't mean to say it, even if he didn't mean to let them out:

"Why didn't you tell me, mom? About him?"

He can't look at her. She's silent for a moment; "Him...? Who—" she says then, and then her breath catches suddenly and a small strangled noise comes out of her throat. "—oh. Oh, Arceus—oh, no. Did he— did he hurt you—? He—?"

She sounds like whatever he says next might break her into pieces and so he keeps his mouth shut, digging his nails into his palms until they hurt. His eyes sting as well, harder than they did before, but he's not crying. He's not.

"I think we should—go inside and talk," Misty tries to intervene. Her voice goes almost unnoticed for a handful of seconds; then he takes a step back, taking his face away from his mother's hands.

"Yeah," he manages. He keeps his eyes on the grass. "We should do that."

He goes first, carefully avoiding lifting his head until his mother is behind him. Misty helps her up the porch steps. The door's already open, and he holds his breath a little as he walks inside, wondering if the house will reflect the way time went by at a different speed on his mother's face.

But the house hasn't changed. The small red doormat still swallows his footsteps, and there's still the framed photos on the wall going up the stairs and the phone on the counter at his left, and even the floor's as clean-scrubbed as it's always been. His eyes hitch on a single different detail, a potted plant that he doesn't remember having seen before, with large flowers of a bright pink; and something else too, one more photo on the wall. He walks a step closer to look at it. He hears the voice right as he meets his own eyes.

"Pikapi...?"

His breath stops halfway out of his throat. He turns, slowly: Pikachu is standing on the doorway to the kitchen, his ears pricked up high, his eyes wide.

And he's not sure what happens then. All he knows is that a second later Pikachu is running towards him, and his knees have hit the floor and his arms have stretched to catch him. He holds him as tight as he can, all of his shaking, sobbing weight, and he's still not crying but he buries his face in his fur and his eyes are burning, burning, burning.

***

They sit in the living room. Delia doesn't take her eyes off Ash for an instant, but he keeps his obstinately on the floor, hunched over his lap and Pikachu. He doesn't say anything, and the clock on the wall ticks on and on, the seconds piling up into walls between the three of them.

"...Ash was—kidnapped by someone," Misty says finally, since he won't. He gives a scoffing huff of breath.

"Not by _someone_ ," he remarks. "By Giovanni. My father."

Delia's shaky hand runs to her mouth. She looks as though a terrible weight fell on her shoulders, and Ash bites his lips and doesn't go on. Misty shakes her head a little.

"Want me to explain the rest?"

He seems to consider the offer for a bit; then folds his arms around his knees and breathes out again. "No, I—I'll do it."

He does. His words cut like glass even if this time he holds back all the sharpest edges and hurries over the most hurtful bits, and his mother's hand trembles some more and she bends over like she's going to vomit right there and then, a thin anguished noise slipping through her fingers. He still doesn't look up.

"A few days ago I managed to run away," he finishes after he's told her everything else, his nails clawing at the skin of his arm. "I—wasn't far from Cerulean City, so I went to Misty's gym."

Delia doesn't speak. Misty lets out a small sigh. "The body they found," she adds, quietly, "it was someone else's. Giovanni made us find it so we wouldn't look for Ash."

She still says nothing for a few moments. She stares at Ash, and everything in her looks about to crumble, like a house under the pull of a hurricane: "Honey, I—I'm—"

"Did you know, mom?" he stops her. His shoulders tremble slightly. "Did you know that he'd want me sooner or later?"

Her face scrunches up. "No. No, I didn't. I haven't—seen or heard from him since before you were born, I didn't even know if—if he knew you existed at all. I thought—at first I thought he might look for us again if he found out, but he never did, and then thirteen years passed and—I didn't know, honey. I didn't."

"Then why didn't you tell me about him?" Ash wants to know. "Why did you tell me—all those lies about how my dad was a pokémon trainer and all that?"

"...I thought—you'd be safer if you never found out the truth," she says. Her voice cracks. "I was wrong. I'm—honey, I was wrong, I'm so, so sorry. Please believe me. I'm so sorry."

She tries to lay a hand on his face and he jerks away from her touch, drawing in a sharp breath. He presses his lips together as her hand hovers mid-air for a second and slowly falls back onto her lap; then breathes out and stands up abruptly, forcing Pikachu to jump down from his knees.

"I wanna go to my room," he says. Then stops, his eyes turning uncertain towards the stairs. "Is my room still...?"

"It's still there," his mother answers. "I—I left everything."

Ash stands in place for another few instants, balling his hands into fists, then storms off without another word. Pikachu follows immediately after. Misty's whole body shifts forward on impulse as well, but she swallows and stays sitting, her fingers fastened around the edge of the armchair. When the sound of Ash's footsteps fades the silence is thicker than a quilt.

Mimey chooses that moment to walk in and lay a tray with three steaming teacups on the coffee table. Delia doesn't even seem to acknowledge it: instead she stares at nothing for a while, paler than a sheet of paper, and Misty bites her lip and wonders if she should at least try to say something. Before she can think of what though Delia stands suddenly and runs off towards the kitchen, her hand pressed back to her mouth.

She follows her after a second, and finds her hunched over the sink, dry heaving and shaking from head to toe. She doesn't know what to do. She wraps her arms around herself and stands on the doorway, waiting. Delia's hand finally finds the knob and lets the water run for a bit.

"I did this," she says, without turning to look at her. Her voice is a broken whimper. Misty shakes her head.

"You didn't," she replies. "Giovanni did. Not you."

Delia grasps the edge of the sink. "I'm _his mother._ I should have protected him and instead I didn't even—I saw the body and I couldn't—"

She can't go on. She sobs; then turns the water off and stares at the wall, trying and not quite managing to steady her breath.

"I was—seventeen when I met Giovanni," she tells her, still not turning. "Seventeen. That's not much older than you are now. And then I left him about a year later and after I did I found out I was pregnant. I didn't know what to do. And I thought—when he never showed up again I thought we were safe. I never even—heard his name again until today."

Misty sinks her teeth into her lip. "Ash is alive," she whispers after a moment. "I know this is—really a lot, but—he's alive. We can keep him safe _now_."

Delia reaches for a towel and uses it to wipe her eyes. She drops it on the counter then, and turns to look at her, her face all red and puffy.

"Misty, honey, could you—be a dear and go check if he's alright? I would, but—I think I'm not the person he wants to see right now."

She nods. "Are—are _you_ going to be alright, though?"

"I will," Delia promises. "Please. I just—don't want him to be alone."

Misty takes a half-step back towards the hallway, then stops, biting her lips again. "I don't think he's—really blaming you," she tries. "It's just—a lot for him too."

But Delia shakes her head. "He should blame me. He's got every right to," she says. Then somehow manages to pull the corners of her lips into a faint smile. "Go. Please. I need you with him."

She nods again and turns to leave, after lingering on her feet for a bit still. She looks back when she gets to the stairs: Delia is bent over the sink again and her back is jumping, like she's crying or trying to hold back the sobs. Misty swallows, something in her crumpled up and hurting; then breathes in and hurries upstairs.

***

He doesn't answer when she knocks. When she turns the knob and peeks in anyway she finds him standing with his back to the door, staring down at something.

"It's me," she lets him know. He still says nothing, so she walks in and closes the door and draws near to see what he's looking at. He's holding his pokéball-shaped alarm clock, turning it over in his hands like he's not sure what it is or where it came from.

He sets it down on his desk as she watches him. "So, what's it feel like to be home?" she asks; and he gives a little shrug, still looking at the clock. He glances at her after a couple moments.

"Is—my mom okay?"

Misty purses her lips. "She will be," she sighs. "Give her a little time."

Ash looks away. Pikachu is staring up at him from the floor, his eyes still huge. "I didn't want to hurt her. I just—"

He doesn't go on. She sighs a little again.

"I know."

Again he doesn't reply. He picks up something else, a pencil sharpener shaped like a Poliwag; then leans over and spins the globe on his desk. The regions and the oceans turn into a green-blue blur.

"Everything okay?" she asks after a bit. Ash stops the globe, his fingers landing on the Orange Islands.

"Yeah. Told you, you don't need to keep asking."

"Fine, sorry for worrying," she retorts, raising her eyebrows. "You're even quieter than usual, that's why I did."

His fingertips trace the distance from the Orange Islands back to Kanto, and from there to Johto. "I'm fine. It's just—"

"What?"

He purses his lips. Then shakes his head and turns away. "Nevermind. It's just stupid."

"Okay," she gives up. Ash climbs the ladder to his bed and runs his hand over the spines of the bunch of books and videotapes lined on the shelf right above. He picks the last one out and flips through the pages. It's a picture book, yellowed and creased enough to be as old as he is.

"Where are the rest of my pokémon?" he asks. "At Professor Oak's lab?"

"Yeah. We could go see them if you want."

He seems to consider it. Then drops the book on the mattress and shakes his head. "I don't really feel like explaining everything again right now."

"Fine. We can do that another day."

He says nothing. He lies down on his back and stares at the ceiling, his arms spread out across the bed. Pikachu wedges himself in the space between his neck and his shoulder with a faint sound.

She watches them for a bit, then sighs a little again and sits down on the last step of the ladder. Her eyes run across the room, going over the posters and the shelves and the TV and his Snorlax beanbag: all the things that Delia kept dusting even when she thought no one would ever come back to them. She tries to imagine what it might feel like, to be back in this room filled to the brim with remainders of what his life was before, and she comes up with nothing.

When she looks up after a while he's curled up towards the wall. She presses her lips together and sits back down, leaning her arms against her knees. She waits.

***

There's a timid knock on the door a couple hours later, and Ash bites his lip and keeps his eyes on the wall. "Honey...?" comes his mother's voice after a moment: "Can I—can I come in?"

He bites his lip harder, then sighs and rolls to his back, wincing a little when a slight jolt of pain runs through his injured side. "Yeah."

The door opens. His mother looks like she's done a lot of crying, but she smiles a little bit. She doesn't come in, though.

"I just—wanted to tell you that I made some dinner, if you're hungry," she says. Mimey peeks from behind her. "I—I made hamburgers. Your favorite."

He sits up and shrugs. "Sure, why not," he mumbles, still looking at everything but her eyes. He climbs down from the bed as Misty stands, stretching her back; and stands there for a second before finding the nerve to walk towards the door. Only when Pikachu hops down the steps and looks at him in anticipation he resigns to.

He doesn't look, but he can still feel his mother's eyes not leaving him for a moment, and he hesitates as he's about to walk past her. She takes in a shaky breath.

"Honey, can I—" she starts, then stops, stumbling on her own words. "Can I—can I hug you? It's—it's okay if you say no, I'll understand. And you can still be angry at me. I just—really want to hug you."

Ash's stomach crumples and he presses his teeth into his lip again, staring at the floor and at her pink slippers. But he recognizes the plea in her voice, the same desperate _want_ he felt when he first heard it while he hid behind the corner, and so he gives another shrug, his nails sinking into the skin of his palms.

"If you want."

And she takes a step closer, tentatively, almost uncertain; then slowly folds him into a hug. She smells sweet: like something growing in the oven, like the air outside the kitchen window. Ash stiffens, his face pressed against her cardigan, and keeps his arms frozen at his sides as her hand runs through his hair and she lets out an almost-sob, and maybe there's a tiny bit of him somewhere deep down that just wants to let go, to give into her arms and sob a little as well—but it's so small and so far away that's almost not there at all. The rest of him feels out of place in her hug, the same way he felt when he walked into his room again. The same way he felt when he picked up all the things that were so familiar once, one after the other, and it was like they belonged to someone else.

(It feels like not being really home, he thinks. Like being there but not being there at all.)

His mother's hand runs down his back and he knows he should have broken the hug when her fingers find the scars. She stops and her breath catches, and she holds him even tighter for a moment, shaking: "What has he done to you...?" she whispers, then lets him go to look at him and he steps back almost immediately—too abruptly, probably, because her arms remain outstretched towards the air for a second too many. He kicks the floor a bit, then forces himself to glance up and stretch his lips into a brief sort-of smile.

"I'm fine," he assures her. Then adds: "So, about those hamburgers?"

She nods and turns to make way downstairs, a bit too quickly, like she's trying to hide tearful eyes. Misty gives his arm a little squeeze as they follow.

They sit awkwardly at the dinner table, mostly in silence even if Misty tries to kick off some conversation, and when his mother does speak he thinks of how different her voice sounded before, when she still hadn't seen him. How less broken. He pushes the hamburger around in his plate, his throat too tight to eat.

Outside the window the garden is dark and still, and his eyes keep running to it, expecting to see someone hidden, watching, waiting. But he sees no one.

***

_Giovanni holds his head up and forces water down his throat. He'd spit it right back in his face, but he's hurting too much everywhere to really do anything._

_The glass makes a clinking noise against the floor of the cell when he sets it down, somewhere out of his reach. He wishes he was so dazed by the pain that Giovanni's words would be just garbled nonsense, but he's awake enough to have heard everything with perfect clarity. Awake enough to hear him ask: "Are you starting to see it now? How we are not that different after all?"_

_He closes his eyes, but he can still see his shadow tower over him. "_ Coraggio _, just one word. Yes or no. I'm sure you can manage that."_

_He swallows. Breathing freaking_ hurts _, and it hurts even more to force out an answer, but he does._

" _Yes."_

***

Delia sets up a bedroll on the floor of Ash's room. He tries to insists that he'll sleep in it so Misty can have the bed, but she's not gonna have that: "Come on, you haven't slept in your bed in how long?" she argues, crossing her arms. "I'd say you kinda earned it. I'll be fine."

But when she wakes up after a couple hours of sleep the room's awfully quiet. She sits up and looks at the bed: it's empty, the blankets thrown to the side. Pikachu isn't there either from what she can see, and she lets a few moments pass, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then pushes aside her own blankets and stands, running one hand through her hair.

The top floor of the house is all quiet, save for a slight rustling she hears when she walks past Delia's bedroom—she's awake too, probably. There's no light coming from the bathroom or from anywhere else, so she hesitates for another few seconds and then heads downstairs. No lights there either, but in the faint moongleam she makes out the small shape huddled up on the couch. The knot that was twisting her insides a little comes loose.

"Hey," she says, taking a couple steps closer. He doesn't turn to look at her. "What are you doing down here?"

Ash keeps his eyes on the window. "Making sure he's not coming to look for me."

"I can do that for a while, if you want to—"

"He's not," he stops her. She blinks.

"What?"

"He's not _looking_ ," he insists. "He should have found me by now. But he hasn't."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"He's not the kinda person who just gives up, so yeah."

She bites her lip again, then walks up to the couch. Pikachu shuffles closer to Ash to let her sit. "Maybe he doesn't know where you are," she tries. Ash gives her a glance.

"I'm sitting in the living room of my own house," he points out. "And I was at your gym until two days ago. He knows who you and Brock are. That should have been one of the first places he checked."

He draws his knees a little closer. He's changed into a clean shirt and pajama pants: those were his, but they still look slightly too big for his body, even if he's taller than he was a year ago. Misty tucks her hair behind her ear and shakes her head. "Okay. Then why do you think he hasn't?"

"He's planning something."

His eyes turn back to the window. Hers follow, and the back of her neck prickles a little despite the garden outside being exactly as still and undisturbed as it was moments ago.

"Like what?"

"I dunno. But you can bet it's not gonna be something nice."

She finds nothing to retort, so she's quiet for a bit, her teeth sinking again into her lip. "Or maybe he thought at this point he'd have brainwashed you for good," she says then. "Except then you escaped and proved him wrong."

Ash looks at her again. "And what? He went oh well, that's a shame and just gave up? I told you, he doesn't do that. You heard what my mom said. She didn't hear anything from him in thirteen years and the whole time he was waiting."

He's right, probably, so she sighs out and says nothing. For a while he doesn't either; he rests his chin on his knees and stares outside, his brow crumpled to a frown.

"I tried to run once before," he tells her after a few minutes. Misty turns.

"And what happened?"

He gives a grim scoffing sound. "I got caught. The pokémon they gave me had locators on. They got me after a few hours."

She doesn't want to hear what comes next, but she asks anyway, her voice faltering a little: "And...?"

"They beat me," he says. Again like it doesn't mean anything, like it's not even worth a hitch in his breath. She holds hers. "I got some broken ribs. But it wasn't—"

He stops and his shoulders twitch. Misty shakes her head. "What?"

"It wasn't—the reason I didn't try again until now," he spits out, and now his voice does shake slightly. He breathes in. "There was—a girl."

"A girl?"

He nods. "Yeah. He—Giovanni sent me on a mission as a test to see what I could do. I was supposed to steal this shiny Eevee and bring it back to him. Well, things didn't go all that smooth and the guy that owned the Eevee, he—he tried to fight, but he was alone and there were five men Giovanni sent there with me, and I'm pretty sure they killed him. And then when we got to the room where the Eevee was supposed to be there was this little girl. I think it was his daughter."

Misty swallows. Her throat's caught on a lump and she's hurting somewhere deep down, and what makes it worse is that he's still talking like he's not, like he's telling her about something that happened to someone else. Or like he's been hurting for so long that it doesn't even register anymore. "And—what happened then?"

"They wanted me to hurt her," he says. "She was crying and one of them told me to hit her so she'd shut up. But I couldn't do it, so I just stood there. And then she—the girl, she bit the guy that was holding her, and there was this—this _moment_ where two of them were distracted, 'cause one of them had the girl and one had the Eevee, and I dunno what I though, I just sent out most of my pokémon and told them to attack the others. And I ran. I didn't even try to take the girl with me. I just ran."

She doesn't want to hear any more. But she listens as he goes on: "After they got me—Giovanni came to see me. He wanted to make sure I'd learned my lesson. And then he told me—"

He stops again. Misty's lips feel numb, prickling. "What?"

He takes a breath and pushes it out again. Now it does sound like he's hurting, and maybe he's shaking a little; but the room's too dark to be sure. Pikachu looks at him, his mouth a worried little _o_. "He told me—that because of what I did my pokémon were killed, and the girl was hurt too. Bad. I could have tried to take her with me. Or I could have even just done what they wanted and knocked her out so she'd stop screaming, 'cause I _knew_ that if I didn't they'd do much worse. But I didn't. And he said—that in the end we weren't so different. That I could try all I wanted to convince myself that I wasn't like him, but when I really had to make a choice I only thought about myself. And that's—the same thing I'm doing now, ain't it? Putting you all in danger."

She can't say anything. Ash shakes his head, digging his fingers into the fabric of his pants to pull his knees closer still.

"See, you agree."

"I _don't_ ," she retorts. It sounds like a sob. She sniffles and angrily wipes the corner of one eye: "Of course I don't, you... idiot."

He doesn't reply. She sniffles again.

"So why didn't you try to run again after that? Come on, finish the story."

Ash lifts his head and looks at her like she's stupid. "Because I did once and because of it people and pokémon got hurt and _killed._ "

"So you stayed," she says. "You didn't try to run from a place where you got beaten regularly and where you—got whipped and got your ribs broken, and—what else? Did they give you food at least?"

He looks away. "Sometimes."

"Oh, sometimes, great. Let me add 'got starved' to the list. And you didn't try to run again. Because you thought if you did others would get hurt."

"Yeah," he grumbles, his eyes still on the floor. "Well, it's not like there were a lot of times when I could have anyway. A couple occasions max. Most of the time they guarded me really well."

"But in those occasions you didn't even try."

"There were other people."

She shakes her head. "So you saw that one chance to escape after you'd been trapped there for—what, months?" He gives a small nod. "From the way you told it it sounded like you didn't even have time to think about what you were doing, you just took what could have been your only chance. And you didn't hurt that girl or your pokémon. They did."

"I did other things," he cuts her off. Misty bites her lips.

"I don't care," she says though. "You're not like that—that piece of shit because you were tortured until you couldn't take it anymore."

He doesn't speak, he just tugs at the fabric again. _What things_ , she desperately wants to ask. _What did he make you do to break you so thoroughly._ But last night she told him that he didn't have to tell her unless he wanted to, and she's pretty sure he wouldn't answer anyway, at least not yet. So she just sighs and leans her chin on her hands, and for a while they listen to the silence as the clock ticks.

"Fine, so he's planning something," she says after a bit. She holds her head up. "You know what? Big freaking deal. We're gonna be prepared to face him whenever he decides to show up."

Ash glances at her again. "You don't—"

"Yeah, I don't know what he's capable of. I got that," she stops him. "I guess it just means I'll have to be capable of _worse_ , because I'm gonna kick his pathetic ass personally if he even so much as looks at you again, and I'm gonna look at him in the face when I do and tell him that I know you better than he could ever dream to, and that you will never be like him. Never, not even close. It doesn't matter what he forced you to do."

Her voice cracks a little towards the end. Ash keeps looking at her, and maybe for a moment the corners of his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile; but it lasts so little that she might as well have imagined it. Then he shakes his head and turns away.

"You'd be wrong."

"No I wouldn't," she retorts. Then adds, for good measure: "I'm always right."

He raises his eyebrows. "Sure."

"Even Pikachu agrees with me. Don't you, Pikachu?"

Pikachu nods, then snuggles against Ash's side to better illustrate the concept. He jumps slightly, surprised, but after a moment the lines of his face soften and he lowers one arm to stroke the pokémon's back. Misty smiles a bit and stretches her own hand to give his striped fur a ruffle. Ash doesn't draw back when her fingers bump against his. He just looks at her hand for a while.

"Wanna get back to bed?" she tries asking. "I can stay up to keep watch if you want to get some sleep."

But he shakes his head again. "I'm fine. It's just—weird being in my room," he says. "But thanks."

So she sighs an _okay,_ and pulls her feet on the couch, shifting into a more comfortable position. "You don't need to stay here as well, y'know," Ash tells her. She leans her head against the back of the couch and sighs again.

"Shut up."

***

She calls Brock at the gym in the morning. He answers within moments, like he was waiting or about to call as well.

"Hey," he greets her. "I take you got there safe."

"Yeah." She bites down on her lip a bit. "Well, we got here yesterday actually. It just—slipped my mind to call you, between explaining Mrs. Ketchum and everything."

"How did she take it?" he wants to know. Misty thinks about it for a moment—thinks of Mrs. Ketchum doubled over the sink, of how her hands were still shaking a little at dinner, and her fork klinked against the plate more than it should have. Her fingers tug at the phone wire.

"It wasn't—the easiest thing," she says. "She thinks it's her fault."

Brock breathes out in a sigh. "And Ash?"

"...Let's just say it wasn't the easiest thing for him either."

"I imagined as much," he says. Then runs a hand nervously through his hair, and his eyes drift off for a second before turning back to hers. "Listen, your sister just got back here if you want to talk to her, she's gone to take a shower, but—there's something else we should probably talk about first."

"What?" Misty asks. But she thinks she knows, and her stomach twists a little. Brock purses his lips. At the corner of the screen she sees him drum his fingers.

"Jessie got back at me last night. She said—she's managed to get in contact with one of the people they told us about."


	6. Chapter 5

"She said she can arrange a meeting," Brock tells her. "But it has to be in some isolated place because apparently this person is concerned about her safety. She said if we still want to do it she'll get in touch with James and he can get you and Ash to wherever this secret spot they decided on is." He pauses, pressing his lips together, then breathes out in a sigh. "Does that sound risky to you?"

"Kinda," she admits. Brock taps his fingers on the counter.

"I'll be there too, of course, that goes without saying. But this whole secret meeting place thing... I don't know, I don't really like the sound of it. You know?"

"Do you think Jessie, James and Meowth might—what, lead us into a trap or something?"

"Well, no, not _on purpose_ , I don't think," he says. "I'm just not as sure about this person. Jessie says she trusts her enough, but... I don't know if we should."

Misty bites the inside of her cheek a bit. "...But we don't really have a choice, do we? I mean, it's not like we have some Plan B up our sleeve. It's this or what, wait for Giovanni to show up and hand Ash back to him?"

"No, of course not," Brock sighs. But his glance trails off again, his brow creased in a worried frown. She shakes her head.

"We're just going to meet this person and hear what she's got to say for now, right? If it doesn't look safe enough we'll stop there. And we'll be careful. Counting the trio it makes six of us, and we'll have our pokémon. If this whole thing somehow turns out to be a trap we'll fight them off."

"Yeah, well, let's hope it's that easy. From the way Ash put it, I'm not so sure we're looking at the kind of people you can just _fight off._ "

He's right, probably, and his words do make her stomach crumple some more. She thinks of what Ash said over and again: _you don't know what they can do_. "It's still the only option we have," she reminds him though, after a moment. "Unless you got some other idea in the meantime. I know I didn't."

Brock raises a hand to his temples, rubbing them like to contain a headache. "No, yeah, me neither."

"Do we even know anything about who this person is?"

He shrugs: "Jessie didn't say much. Just that she's known her for years and she's had some help from her a couple times."

"What sort of help?"

"She didn't say."

"Great." She thinks about it for a second, pressing her teeth into her lip. "Wait. I'll go get Ash, so we can talk."

He isn't too thrilled to hear the news, predictably. He stands frowning as she puts the call on speakerphone, his jaw clenched; and shakes his head as soon as Brock's done repeating everything for the second time.

"I don't like it."

"Well, neither do I, as I was telling Misty," says Brock. "But she's right. We don't exactly have many other options."

He looks away, his hands curling into nervous fists. "I'll go alone then."

"Don't be stupid," she retorts, earning a swift glare in response. Brock agrees on this one at least.

"That's out of the question, Ash."

He turns back to the screen. "I'll manage. I don't need you guys babysitting me all the time."

"No, but you need some backup," Brock replies patiently. "Think about it. Let's say you're right about _not liking it_ , let's say—this person pulls some double agent stunt and this whole thing turns out to be some sort of set up. You get there and five, or ten Team Rocket officers pop out of hiding to get you back to Giovanni. What do you do then? The more of us, the more chances to actually be able to fight them."

"I'll figure out something," he insists, stubborn. He swallows and his eyes drift back to the floor, meet Pikachu's, skitter away. "And if I don't at least you'll be safe."

"Yeah, and you'll be back in a cell who knows where," she snaps. Ash scowls at her again for a second, puffing his cheeks. "If you're not dead or—or dying or being used as a punching ball!"

Brock waves his hands weakly on the videophone screen: "Guys, come on, if you're gonna jump at each other at least wait until I'm there to physically restrain you," he tries to intervene. Then sighs. "Ash, we're not discussing this part. Either we do this thing together or we don't do it at all, but considering that none of us can think of a better strategy the second option isn't... well, really an option here."

He says nothing. Brock takes a deep breath and goes on. "So unless you just got some other idea—and I'm gonna assume you don't, or you'd have mentioned it at this point—I'll let Jessie know that we still want to go through with this."

For the rest of the phonecall Ash keeps silent, obstinately staring away as she and Brock discuss the details a bit further, and barely mutters a "yeah, bye" before he hangs up. Misty puts down the phone and turns to look at him: she takes in his hands still clenched tight at his sides, his stiffened shoulders. She shakes her head a little.

"It's gonna be okay," she tries. "We're going to be careful. And if I tell my Gyarados to roast anyone who looks at us wrong it will."

He glances at her. "Yeah, well. If no one shoots it dead first," he grumbles. She's left scrambling for a reply and finds none. Ash stands in place for a few moments still, biting down on his bottom lip; then breathes out in a sharp forced huff and heads back upstairs. Pikachu rushes after him like a shadow.

***

They don't tell Delia what exactly they're going to do.

"I can't—stay here much longer," Ash says. His eyes are glued to some spot near her slippers. "He might come looking for me."

His mother stares at him—stares at the backpack in his hand, and her face crumples up at the edges. She parts her lips to speak and manages nothing for a few moments, and Misty can see her chin quiver and looks away, her throat tight. "...Honey, no, you—you don't need to go anywhere," she finally lets out, stumbling over her own words. "You're safe here. We can—we can go to the police, we can keep you protected, you don't have to leave..."

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. "That's not gonna work. I dunno how much Giovanni told you about Team Rocket back then, but it's—bigger than just him and a bunch other people. They're everywhere, the police, the government, everything. Going to the police would be... the same as showing up on his door and asking him to take me back."

"But you don't have to leave," she says again. Her voice cracks, brittle, like ice under heavy footsteps. "I won't let him hurt you again. I won't, honey, I promise."

"You can't do that," he retorts. He must notice how harsh that sounded then, and he pauses, trying again. "I know you would if you could. But you can't. He's way too strong for anyone to fight him."

She seems to shrivel up under his words. Her shoulders fall and her face does too, so much that Misty can't understand how she's not crying yet. Ash swallows. Then manages to stretch the corners of his lips into something that vaguely resembles a smile and his eyes venture up for a second, only to turn away again before they've really met hers.

"It's gonna be okay," he assures her. "I know—a place to hide. I'll be safe. You don't have to worry."

"I'll make sure he stays out of trouble," she chimes in, although it doesn't come out quite like she hoped. Delia looks at her and then back at him.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't tell you. It's safer for you if you don't know. Listen, mom—"

He stops. She waits, her hands knotted so tight around one another that her knuckles are starting to turn white, and he looks down towards Pikachu and sinks his teeth into his lip.

"Don't stay here alone. Go to Professor Oak's lab. Take Mimey too. Explain him everything that's happened and then don't come home, stay there at least for a few days."

He doesn't say _you're in danger here_ , but that's what his words mean. His mother shakes her head and panic rises in her voice: "No, I—I can't let you do this. I can't—Ash, don't think you can just walk out of that door or—"

"Or what?" he cuts her off. "You gonna lock me up somewhere too?"

She takes the blow. For an interminable moment the silence is unbearable; then he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and takes a breath.

"I'm sorry," he says. He bites his lip again. "I didn't—mean that, mom."

Delia shakes her head one more time. "Come with me to Professor Oak's laboratory," she pleads. "Both of you. We can all hide there, honey, please—"

"I _can't,_ " he insists. "I wish—there was another way, but there isn't one. I need to do this."

She looks at him for a second still, tears welling at her eyelashes. Then takes a step closer and pulls him into a hug, her shoulders shaking as though she's trying her best to keep the sobs from breaking loose. Ash stands still, clenching his fists a little. His mother holds him tight for a long moment before letting go, and when she finally does her hands linger on his arms.

"I'll be back soon enough. Don't worry," he promises. Then swallows and draws back, and quickly heads to the door without turning again. But on the doorstep he pauses, one hand grasping the frame.

"...Mom?" He's still not looking at her. Her face perks up a little bit, hopeful. Ash breathes. "I don't think—any of this is your fault."

He walks out then, letting the door slam shut behind him. Delia lets out a sob and turns to Misty like she just remembered that she was there as well. She digs her nails into her palms:

"I'll take care of him, Mrs. Ketchum," she tells her. "I promise. I won't let anything happen to him this time."

That _this time_ feels like being ran through with a knife. Delia just stares at her for a bit; the closes the distance between the two of them with a couple shaky steps and hugs her too, so tight and so suddenly that for a second she's left frozen in her arms. "Please be careful," she whispers, and Misty nods, her throat caught on a lump.

"We will."

Delia lets her go and rights herself, wiping her palm over her right eye. Somehow that's still all the crying she allows herself in front of her. Misty tries to give her a smile, not entirely sure she's managing it; and after a moment of hesitation slips her backpack onto her shoulder and turns to follow Ash outside.

She finds him sitting on the porch steps, Pikachu patiently waiting at his side. She stops next to them and tucks her hair behind her ear.

"Ready?" she asks. Ash stares ahead for a second. Then nods, getting back to his feet.

They go. Behind the house Ash stops, turning to look back one last time; and she can see his hands tighten again. Shrouded by the patch of trees the trio's balloon awaits, the Meowth ears peeking just above their tops.

***

James takes them to a clearing about a day of flight from Pallet. He's got it marked down on a map with a scribbled red X, and the whole time he holds it in front of his nose and squints at it, carefully following their trajectory with the tip of his finger.

It's dark when they land. Ash looks around as he steps out of the basket, dry branches snapping under his shoes.

"Where are we?"

"Near Viridian City," James answers. Then raises a hand to rub the nape of his neck: "...maybe I wasn't supposed to say. Whoops."

He secures the balloon, then lights a small fire at the center of the clearing and throws some canned food at them. "Relax," he says, sitting with his back against a fallen trunk. "Jessie won't be here until the morning at least, so we've got the whole night to get some rest. We can take turns to sleep after we've eaten."

Ash stares down for a second at the can in his hands before he sighs and resigns to sit down. Pikachu stands on his rear legs as he works it open, sniffing curiously at it and his fingers.

"Do you know who this person is?" she asks James, sitting as well. He nods.

"Yeah. Me and Jessie met her a few times."

"What's she like?"

For a second she's sure she saw a slight grin flash on James' face in the firelight. "Well, probably not what you're expecting," he answers with a shrug. "I think you're gonna like her."

Ash stabs the contents of the can with his fork. "Yeah," he grumbles. "I'm more concerned about her turning on us or selling us to Giovanni than _not liking her_."

James looks at him for a moment. Then scarfs down a bite from his own can of whatever and shakes his head.

"Nah, kid. That ain't gonna happen. Wait till you meet her, then you'll believe me."

Ash doesn't retort. They go on eating, the silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant call of some pokémon echoing between the trees. Ash sets down the can still half full, letting Pikachu have the rest, and tilts his head back to stare frowning at the sky. Misty watches his shoulders rise, shudder slightly, fall again.

(Scared, she thinks—yeah, that's the right word. He looks scared.)

***

She takes the first watch, and for the next couple hours she sits looking at the leftover embers from their fire glowing bright orange in the dark and listening to the quiet of the night. Listening as Ash tosses around in his sleeping bag, awake still. Her fingers go prickly around Gyarados' pokéball, so tightly clasped they are, ready to hit the release button at the first suspicious noise.

She doesn't need to. James sits up and stretches after a while, yawns, and stands up scattering the remains of the fire under his boot. "Get to sleep," he tells her. "My turn now."

So she slips into her sleeping bag and tries to. She leaves the pokéball where she can easily reach it, though, along with her backpack.

She's awakened by screaming. Over the span of the three seconds total that it takes for her eyes to snap open and for her to scramble to sit up her mind's already jumped to absolute certainty that he's here, he's found them, he's found _Ash—_ but she stops, one hand already groping for the pokéball. Ash is in his sleeping bag, curled to a tight ball, and his breath comes out in gasps and as she watches he screams again, and Pikachu stares at him with his eyes wide and his ears flattened on his head, close but not daring to nuzzle him awake.

Misty swallows. Then gets to her feet and reaches him, and drops to her knees again by his side; but she pauses with her hand hovering mid-air, remembering how he reacted the last time she did that. How he shook and struggled in her arms before he recognized her and how his elbow slammed into her ribs, not really _hurting_ but so ready to strike. So she lowers her hand and instead knee-walks around the sleeping bag and lies down so that her face is right in front of his. Only then she does shake him.

Ash's eyes fly open and he half-lunges forward—then sees her and stops. He stops entirely, his breath stuck halfway out of his chest as well. Misty keeps her hand around his shoulder.

"It's me," she tells him. She can feel his heart race against her palm. "It's okay. It's just me. You were dreaming."

He stares at her for a moment still. Then manages to take a ragged breath and rolls to the other side, wrapping himself back around his knees as tight as the sleeping bag allows him. He stiffens when Pikachu tries to wedge himself against his back.

Misty sits up and shakes her head a bit: "It's okay," she tries saying again. He pulls his knees closer, still breathing in gasps.

"I— _know_."

She waits. Waits until he stops shaking, until it no longer looks as if he might snap into pieces if she dares to touch him again. Sitting by the once-was fire James eyes them trying to pretend that he's not.

"How did he do that?" she whispers after a bit, although she thinks maybe she knows already. Ash gives a slight shrug, not turning to look at her.

"Do what?"

"Teach you to do that. The _be alert even while you're sleeping_ thing."

The moment of hesitation before he replies is pretty much an answer in itself. "...Well, it wasn't that hard. It was either learn to react or get beaten."

Something inside her crumples. For the next few seconds she finds nothing to say or do; then slowly, hesitating a little, she leans closer and lays a hand on his shoulder again. He jumps slightly; then relaxes a bit when he realizes it's just her.

She runs her fingers along his arm. He shakes his head.

"What are you doing...?"

"Not beating you," she answers. "Shh. Try to get back to sleep."

"I can't. It's my turn to keep watch."

"James and I can do that. You don't have to."

"I'm _fine_."

"I know." She keeps stroking his shoulder. She can feel his bones sharp under his skin. "Just try to get back to sleep. You hardly slept at all in the past few days."

He does, though kind of begrudgingly. Misty listens to his breath and waits for as long as it takes for it to turn heavy and slow. When she's sure he's asleep she takes her hand back and stands, dusting dirt and pine needles off her knees.

"You get back to sleep too, kid," James tells her. "I'll take the rest of the night."

She thanks him with a slight smile and walks back to her sleeping bag. She doesn't sleep much: mostly she listens, checking that he's not having nightmares again. But his breath remains quiet, only hiccuping a little a couple times; and after a while she does doze off again too. This time she's not awakened by his screams.

***

_The gym is quiet. She dreaded them at first, these moments: the ones where she'd find nothing to keep herself busy with, when all the daily chores would be over and done with and her pokémon tired from battling, and there'd be nothing left to do, nothing left to fill the silence. But she's starting to ease herself back into them, she thinks, a bit at a time. She's learning._

_It'll be six months tomorrow. It feels like a lifetime and at the same time a blink, like he was there yesterday._

_Gyarados' back emerges from the pool for a second, its scales glimmering in the blue moonlight._

" _I think—I'm doing alright," she says. She feels a bit silly, talking to no one, and the corners of her lips twitch into an embarrassed smile. She goes on, though. "I didn't think I would at first, you know. But I think—I think maybe I can do it."_

_Saying it out loud feels all kind of right and wrong mingled together. Light bounces on the surface of the water, and she swallows, her eyes fixed on the dancing patterns._

" _I just wish—you could see this. I think you would be happy for me. I think—maybe you'd be proud."_

_There's no answer of course, and she wipes her eyes, finding them a little wet. His name is a lump in her throat. She keeps smiling, though._

" _I hope you are."_

***

The morning comes and goes without anyone showing up.

Ash pokes at the remains of the fire with a twig, impatient. "You said they'd be here by now. You sure you got us to the right place?"

"I said they wouldn't be here until the morning _at least_ ," James reminds him. "They're probably on their way. I think our person might travel slowly."

"Why?"

"Oh, you'll see."

He won't say more, and it seems to him that he's enjoying the secrecy for whatever reason, so he stops asking, annoyed. Misty stretches her back and sighs a little, sitting down next to him. Her fingers brush a strand of hair away from her face. She catches him watching after a bit and her lips fold into a slight smile.

It gets dark again before they've seen or heard anyone. A sharp wind rises, threatening to blow out the new fire James lit, and he shivers a bit and pulls his knees close to his chest. The sky above is pitch black, punctured by rows of stars. He's slept under a sky like this countless times, but now it feels different, unfamiliar somehow, like it's slipped farther away. He didn't have many occasions to look at the stars while he was with Giovanni.

It's got to be pretty late when they finally hear footsteps. He jumps to his feet; Misty does the same after a second. The footsteps come closer, branches snapping, dead leaves crackling under more than one set of feet, and he swallows, his throat suddenly so dry it feels almost raw. His eyes scan the trees. It's too dark to see anything past the edges of the clearing, where the firelight fades.

He digs his nails into his palms, his breath hitching in his chest.

Misty takes a step forward and holds out one arm as if to shield him, the pokéball in her other hand. Pikachu jumps ahead too: sparkles fly around his cheeks, bright sizzling yellow. And now he does see something, now he makes out shapes coming into the light. Jessie first, pushing branches out of her way; then Brock and Meowth. And then—

He blinks.

She doesn't look like he imagined. Well, that's an understatement. He was expecting someone tall, maybe, maybe with square shoulders and large biceps stretching their Team Rocket uniform. Someone who would crack their knuckles against their palm, and he'd hear the sound echo through his gut and feel his knees shake. Someone who could just look at him, standing on a doorway with a whip in their hand, and make his skin crawl.

But instead he's looking at a small old woman, shorter than he is, with a mane of gray hair tied behind her head. She's not wearing a Rocket uniform. Her face is dark and wrinkled, small metal glasses perched at the top of her nose, and she walks with a slight limp on the uneven terrain, her hands firmly knotted behind her back.

She stops at the opposite end of the clearing and her eyes look the three of them up and down. "You can tell your pokémon to calm down, child," she says. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"It's—okay, Pikachu," he reassures him after a moment. Pikachu backs down, although he keeps looking warily at the woman and his stance remains that of ready-to-attack. Ash shakes his head.

"...You're a Team Rocket agent?"

"That I am," she answers. Her voice sounds somewhat wrinkly too, like parchment, like flipping the pages of an old newspaper. "Not what you were expecting, huh? I'm not a field agent, you can probably guess as much."

He looks at Brock and he gives a little shrug. "She's a friend," says Jessie. "She's been in the team for longer than Giovanni's been in charge."

"Why would she want to betray him and help us then?" Ash wants to know. The woman frowns:

"One thing at a time. I was told you have something to offer. You go first. I'm doing you a favor by being here, not the other way around."

He hesitates for a second. Misty meets his eyes, her hand still tight around Gyarados' pokéball; then turns back to the woman.

"We're offering our help," she says. "In exchange for protection."

"And why should I need your help, or be interested in what you ask in return?"

Misty draws a breath. "Jessie, James and Meowth told us that you're part of a number of people who are plotting against Giovanni," she continues. The woman doesn't confirm nor deny, her face unreadable, but the slight glint in her eyes gives him the feeling that she already knows the whole deal and just wants to hear it again from them. "I'm a gym leader of Cerulean City. I'm—I'm willing to offer all of my support to your cause. And my friend—"

"Giovanni is my father," he stops her. He takes a step forward, looking straight into the woman's eyes. "My mother's name is Delia Ketchum. I dunno if he ever mentioned her to anyone, but she was involved with Giovanni about fifteen years ago."

She doesn't speak. Ash breathes in.

"I didn't know until about a year ago," he goes on. His throat tightens. "I was—on my journey as a pokémon trainer when he sent someone to kidnap me. I was held a prisoner and—" he hasn't actually said that word out loud yet. He swallows, pressing his nails into his palms. "...I was— _tortured_ until I accepted to follow his orders and join the team. Until I managed to escape, a few days ago. But he's gonna want be back. It's only a matter of time."

The woman's eyes scan him from head to toe again. "I heard talk about Giovanni having a child," she says after a few seconds. She squints through her glasses: "I guess I can see a resemblance."

Ash winces. She tilts her head a little, watching him. "So do you have any proof of what you just told me or am I expected to just take your word?"

"Proof?" He frowns. "If you want some DNA test or something I don't have it. I was kinda busy running away to think about collecting evidence."

"What reason could we have to make up all of this?" adds Misty. The woman says nothing: her glasses glimmer in the firelight, the flames painting dark shadows over her face.

Ash gives a shrug, not sure what else to say or do. Then bites his lip, hard enough to hurt, and after a moment of hesitation reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. Fists clenched, he turns to show her his scarred back.

"Is this proof enough?" he spits out. He can hear more or less everyone's breath catch and remembers that only Misty had already seen them. The woman gives a "hm" sound.

"Put your shirt back on, child," she says. Then adds: "I am sorry about what happened to you."

"Will you help?" Misty wants to know. She doesn't answer right away. Instead she observes them for a bit still.

"I work for something called the International Police," she says finally. "Supposedly, we catch criminals. I'm not a big fish; I work in an archive. My duty is to organize and preserve evidence. And, when I'm asked to do so, to destroy it discreetly." She nods in the general direction of Jessie, James and Meowth. "I had to do it for these three scoundrels a few times. They've left behind a fair number of messes that needed some cleaning up, least one of them lead my department straight to them."

She pauses for a moment, as if looking for the right words to go on. "As you can perhaps guess, it's not a particularly dangerous position, at least for what concerns my physical safety. But I have a family. I have three children of my own. Well, they're not really children anymore. Two of them have children themselves. If I am caught, I won't be the only one affected. And I have a certain age, anyway—I can't keep doing this forever. So a few years back I told Giovanni I wanted out. I felt it was finally time to retire. Do you know what Giovanni said when I told him that?"

He shakes his head. The woman's eyes narrow.

"Nothing. He just slid a folder towards me. Inside were pictures of my children, and of their children. Hundreds of pictures, all clearly taken without them noticing."

Ash's stomach crumples.

"It was his way of telling me that I belong to him. That I wasn't and will never be free to leave him, because he will always have that insurance. My family. If I don't want them hurt, I can't leave. You asked why I would betray him: that's why."

There's silence. A log collapses in the fire with a dry thump, sending orange sparks to swirl up into the air.

"So will you help us?" Misty asks again, her voice shaking a little. The woman looks at her. The features of her face soften the tiniest amount, all the lines and wrinkles seeming to loosen around the corners of her eyes and mouth.

"Yes, child. If you help me, I will try to help you."

***

_There's a moment when something in him just cracks. When it feels like his body cannot possibly contain any more pain, when there's just nothing left of_ him _, when they've successfully beaten out everything he knew to be true._

_And so when after managing to K.O. his Raticate the boy tries to run away with the master ball in his hand this time he doesn't just stand there, knowing that his failure will be reported to Giovanni and that he'll want him punished accordingly. This time he springs forward and tackles him. The boy fights back, but he's got advantage. He's got training, months of it._

_When he deposits the master ball on Giovanni's desk there's blood on his hands, and some of it stains the sphere too, bloody fingerprints all over the purple and white. Giovanni looks at it with a grin._

" _Good job," he says. And he thinks of the sound his hand made colliding with the boy's face, of his voice begging him to stop. Yeah, good job._

_Giovanni nods for the men to leave the room and leans his chin on his hands, watching him. He's heard the report of how the mission went from one of them. He knows everything he did._

" _I'm curious, tell me. Do you think your friends would forgive you?" he asks. "If they saw you now, I mean, if they really saw you. If they saw what you've become, what you're capable of doing. Do you think they'd want you back?"_

_Ash looks down at his hands. At the blood dried around his knuckles, in the lines of his palms. He took off his gloves but it'd already soaked through._

_He knows the answer to that question._

***

"I can't be the one to singlehandedly protect you from Giovanni, as you may have guessed," the woman tells them. Her eyes reflect the light from the fire: they're an odd shade, it seems, almost gold. "I'm not worth much in terms of physical strength anymore. Not that I ever was. But I'm only one of many in the same position. We can get you to somewhere safe while we plan our next move."

Misty bites her lip a bit. "What would we need to do in return exactly?" she asks. Then quickly adds: "I'm ready to do—whatever it takes. I just want to know _what_."

The woman turns to her. "As a gym leader, you're a public figure. This puts you in a position of relative advantage, because if something were to happen to you the accident would definitely make the news. Something happening to an ordinary person might, too, but it would be talked about much less and be forgotten way more quickly. But he cannot hurt you without stepping into the spotlight at least to a degree. Which isn't to say he wouldn't—he would, definitely, if he had a good reason to. But he's going to have more qualms."

Somewhere behind her a pokémon hoots its lonely call. Misty swallows.

"So what does all of this mean?"

"It means that this small power makes you a valuable ally. Your gym could serve as a temporary base or meeting point on necessity. And in the eventuality of a direct confrontation you and your pokémon would be considered resources. Which is to say, potential fighters."

She tries not to falter. She meets Brock's eyes across the fire and he purses his lips, obviously nervous. The woman's glance runs to him:

"The same could be said about you, although to a smaller degree. You're not in exercise as a gym leader at this time, correct?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "My parents are currently administrating the gym. I still have the faculty to take their place if needed, but I'm not the current gym leader of Pewter City."

"But you were in the past. You still have a reputation as such. That gives you a similar position of advantage, although I suppose _former gym leader found dead_ sounds slightly less sensational than it would without the _former_."

He takes a breath. "I don't want—to bring the gym into it though. That'd mean involving my family as well."

"You might not have a choice," she says. "Once you're in this, the people around you will be involved merely by virtue of being related to you. You think I wanted _my_ family brought in?"

Brock finds nothing to retort. Ash is quiet as well: he stares into the flames and once again draws his knees closer to his chest, his hands around his ankles. Misty watches him, sinking her teeth into her lip; then leans towards him a bit and brushes his arm.

"What do you think?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he swallows and looks up at the woman.

"I've seen what Giovanni is capable of doing," he says. He shakes his head. "He showed me. And you want—my friends to _fight_ him, and you know that it could get them killed, you just said it."

She arches her eyebrows. "You asked for my help. This is what I can give you."

He's silent for a moment longer. Then he shakes his head again and stands, tightening his fists. "We're not doing this. I'm sorry you had to come all this way, but we're not doing it. We're not."

"I don't think—we have much of a choice, Ash," Misty points out. His eyes snap to her, his brow crumpling to a frown.

"Yes we do. I'll just do what I wanted to do all along and find somewhere to hide and if he shows up I'll fight him myself. You'll stay out."

"We've been over this, Ash—" Brock tries. He doesn't let him finish.

"I don't _care!_ "

His voice shakes. He stands there for a second; then turns abruptly and walks away, shoving the bushes out of his way to step out of the clearing. Misty jumps to her feet.

"Ash—"

He doesn't stop. She follows him between the trees, stumbling and scraping her shins in the near-dark. He doesn't even seem to notice her: he keeps walking so fast that even Pikachu is barely keeping up, and she thinks _I'm going to lose him_ and suddenly she's seeing his empty sleeping bag, she's seeing hours of calling and calling under the rain and not finding him still.

"Ash! Wait!"

She can barely see anything. She pushes away a branch and it almost snaps back to hit her in the face, only barely scraping her cheek instead. He stops finally, maybe because he can't see anything either.

She reaches him with her heart running way too fast, her breath half-caught in her throat. "Where on earth are you going? Are you trying to get lost?!"

"Stop," is all he says. His eyes are glued to the ground. She shakes her head, frowning.

"Stop what?"

"This. Doing— _this_ , thinking that you need to follow me everywhere like I'm five years old!"

She blinks. "...Well, sorry for worrying about you getting lost in the woods in the middle of the night!"

"You don't need to _worry!_ And you don't need to protect me, I can do that myself."

His voice is still shaking. She's not going to pretend that she isn't scared as well—she is, so badly that her stomach scrunches up at the mere thought of everything accepting the woman's deal implies. But she's not going to back out either.

"We've talked about this. We're helping you, Ash. We're your friends! We're not gonna leave you alone."

"Yeah, great. Get yourself killed because of me. That really helps, thanks."

She's left without a comeback. Ash keeps looking away and after a moment kicks at the ground, scattering dry leaves.

"I should have just gone somewhere else," he grumbles. Misty stares at him for a second, then balls her hands into fists as well.

"Yeah, you said that," she retorts. She shakes her head again: "Well guess what, it's too late now. You're here, we know you're alive, and we're helping you. Get it through your stupid thick skull once ad for all!"

She didn't mean to yell, but she does anyway, her voice rising higher with each word. Ash throws her a glance:

"Or what, you gonna hit me with the pillow?"

She finds nothing to retort once more. He turns away again, crushing more leaves under his foot.

"I shouldn't have come. I'm not even—"

He stops. Misty looks at him. "...What?"

There's a tremble in his breath. "I'm not even—the person y'all want back."

"...What the hell are you talking about?"

For a bit he says nothing. When he finally does it sounds like he has to squeeze the words out of his chest, one by one. "I'm not—the person you remember. Not anymore. He turned me into something else. It's not—it's not _me_ you wanted back."

"That's bullshit," she spits. Ash gives a scoffing noise.

"Really."

"Yes really! That's some bullshit! That's—the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say, and I've heard you say a whole lot of stupid things!"

He doesn't reply. Misty sinks her teeth into her lip; then loosens her fists and takes a step closer.

"You—you were hurt," she tells him. "That piece of shit hurt you in so many ways that—you ended up thinking that was all there was. But that's it. It doesn't mean that you're not still _you_. And it doesn't mean we don't still care about you and want to keep you safe."

But he kicks the ground again. "Just stop," he says. "Stop doing this. Stop trying to _keep me safe_. I've taken care of myself for a year while I was with Giovanni. I can keep doing it."

"But you don't _have_ to!" she explodes. She takes a breath, trying to keep calm. "We care about you, Ash. We can't just stop doing that. We can't just—forget about all of this and—what? Go on with our lives while for all we know you might be dead or dying or who even knows what?!"

"You'd be better off."

"Oh stop."

She can feel something begin to crumble. Something that she didn't mean to let go, something that she didn't mean to throw in his face because _it's not his fault_ , but now it's too late, she doesn't know how to stop it. She realizes she's shaking. Ash looks back at her.

"What?"

"This! Stop _this!_ Stop acting like it's only about you!"

"What are you—"

"You're not—you're not the only one who's suffered, okay?"

He doesn't say anything. She shakes her head one more time, tears pushing at the back of her eyes. "Yeah, maybe you had it worse than all of us, I'll give you that. But do you have—do you have any idea what it meant to—wake up every morning knowing that you wouldn't be there, that you'd never be there again, that—something happened to you while you were alone, that—that maybe it was my fault because I wasn't there to help you when you needed me?"

The words tumble out of her like a landslide, crashing between the two of them. Her eyes burn. Ash takes his away.

"I told you I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be! I'm not telling you to be sorry! I'm just—I'm trying to make you _understand!_ "

Silence. Somewhere there's the flapping of wings of some pokémon, probably disturbed by her yelling. She buries her nails into her palms, her hands trembling, trembling.

"Do you know—do you know what it meant to try to go on," she continues "because that's what you have to do, you know, the world doesn't stop because your best friend died, and sometimes feel sort of okay for a bit, and then hear your name or see something that reminded me of you and feel the world fall to pieces all over again? And then feel—then feel _guilty_ because I dared to feel okay for that little bit? Because I _forgot_ for a freaking minute?"

She catches her breath in a sob. Ash keeps staring at his feet and his image wobbles before her eyes, doubles. She tries not to blink.

"But you got over it," he says. "You were okay."

"I was _trying!_ I had no choice! But if I let something happen to you now this time I won't 'get over it'. I won't be okay. Because this time I won't just have to wonder, this time I'll _know_ that I could have helped you and I didn't."

Tears spill. She wipes them away with the back of her hand, but they keep coming. "And it's not just about me either. Your mom, Pikachu, Brock, all of you pokémon and your friends—we'll all feel that. And if you don't think that's worse than risking our life—well then congrats, maybe you're right, maybe he's really turned you into someone else, maybe he's turned you into someone who doesn't care about any of us. But I don't think that's true."

He still doesn't speak. She can't stand to look at him anymore, so she sniffles and turns away, taking a few shaky step with her hand pressed against her face to try and smother the sobs. She find something to hold on to—a tree, and slides down to almost-sitting with her back to the trunk; and with her face between her knees she sobs some more, all of the pain from the past year swelling and gurgling its way back to the surface. There's silence still for a handful of moments. Then the crackle of footsteps.

Ash crouches next to her. There's another pause; then his hand stretches towards her, slowly, almost stopping mid-air a couple times. His fingers tap her shoulder, draw back immediately like he's afraid he might have hurt her, come back. Stay this time. It's like he's trying to make himself remember how to touch someone.

She looks down at his hand. She sniffles again; and after a moment covers it with hers.

He sits down. He takes a breath and lets it out, his brow furrowed like he's trying to collect his thoughts.

"There was—some guy who tried to betray the team once, while I was there," he says. "He had some evidence he thought could lead the police straight to Giovanni. But one of the officers he talked to was actually a Rocket agent, so he found out. He showed me what happened to that guy, as a warning, in case I got some similar idea sooner or later."

He takes his hand back and closes his eyes. "His house burned down at night. He had a family, a wife and two kids. The youngest one was only two years old. They all died in their sleep. All the evidence he had was destroyed. And the whole thing was written off as an accident."

A tremble stirs at the bottom of his voice. She remembers hearing about it in the news: a family of four killed by a house fire, a tragic fatality. Not a mention of Team Rocket or arson being involved. Ash bites his lip and turns to look at her.

"I'm putting you in danger just by being near you," he says. "I just—don't want you hurt."

"And I don't want _you_ hurt," she retorts. She wipes her arm over her face. "We're even."

He says nothing. She waits for a bit—waits until she's successfully pushed back her tears, until she's sure enough that she'll be able to speak without her voice cracking. "I think we should go back," she says then. "I promise we will be as careful as we can. If you promise me you'll let us help you. Deal?"

He hesitates for a moment, his teeth again sunk into his lip. He turns to look at Pikachu and finally lets out a sigh.

"Deal."


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> The lyrics quoted are from "It's the fear" by Within Temptation.  
> While I'm writing author notes, gonna take the chance to thank everyone who's read and commented on/faved this story so far, since I haven't done so yet. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

" _I have something for you to do."_

_They're familiar words at this point. The wounds on his back have healed; so have his broken ribs. He got new cuts and bruises on top of the old ones and those too have faded or are starting to, blue to yellow to nothing, pain to scars. He's learned what happens if he says no, if he tries to resist._

_He's learning not to._

_(What gives, anyway? If he doesn't do what Giovanni wants someone else will. Someone else will do_ worse. _)_

_The way his stomach crumples to a knot upon hearing them is also familiar. But he asks: "What do I have to steal this time?"_

_Giovanni's glance lingers on the papers in his hands for a moment still, then he sets them down and looks at him. "No, no. Nothing about stealing. I've got something else for you."_

_He doesn't dare to ask what. "It's come to my attention that one of my recruits may be having second thoughts about having joined the Team," Giovanni continues. His Persian nuzzles his leg, purring when the man's hand absentmindedly scratches its head. "Which is disappointing, because I've invested a lot in the training of this boy. You see, he's the son of someone who holds a high position within the Pokémon League, and I had very high hopes to eventually turn him into a double agent. Fortunately for us, he hasn't tried to run or hide yet so I know exactly where he is, but he's ignored repeated requests to appear before me. Which is why I want you to bring him here."_

" _And—" Ash swallows and his nails sink into his palm a little. "What's gonna happen to him, once I do that?"_

" _That's not your concern for now," says Giovanni. He pulls a folder from his drawer and drops it in front of him: attached to the front with a paperclip is a picture of a boy with brown scruffy hair and a faceful of freckles. "Everything you need to know is in there. You won't be alone, of course—my men will monitor you as usual. But you will do the job."_

_He looks at the photo. The boy can't be more than two or three years older than he is. Giovanni leans forward, resting his chin atop his hands._

" _So what do you say? Can you do this?"_

_It's not really a question, of course, and even without turning he can feel the glance of the men standing silently behind his back. So he swallows again and gives the only answer he can._

" _Yes, sir."_

***

"I dunno why Giovanni hasn't done anything to get me back yet. But he will."

The woman nods. Next to her James pokes at the branches in the fire with a stick, causing the flames to flare up higher. "Aye, you're probably right. He certainly isn't the type to give up on something he wants," she says. Then purses her lips for a moment, thoughtful. "How long has it been since you escaped?"

He counts quickly in his head: two days running, two at Misty's gym, four between flying to his house and then here. "About a week now."

"Not that long then, but still more than enough time for him to get his hands on anything he's really after. Trust me,"—she pauses again, releasing a breath in a sigh—"it's no stretch to assume that he's known where you were hiding if not all along, then nearly so. I can only think of two reasons why he hasn't made a move yet: either he's convinced that he can get you back any time he wants and therefore is in no hurry to do so—"

"That's not gonna happen," Misty steps in. The woman's eyes narrow as they run to her.

"You seem quite bold, child, but let me tell you that in this case it might not be so wise. Do not make the mistake of underestimating Giovanni," she remarks, before turning back to Ash. Her face is stern and taut in the firelight. "The only other option, the way I see it, is that he has some motive to not be doing anything."

He shakes his head a little. "What's that mean?"

"That he might have been observing you without interfering to gather information he could eventually turn to his advantage. Where you would be most likely to hide, who you would turn to for help. That sort of thing. You can never have too many weak spots."

His insides twist. He's thought of that already—he's expected Giovanni's men to be lurking in every shadow ever since he allowed himself to think that this time, this time he might really have done it. But hearing it in a voice not his own makes his presence suddenly feel almost palpable, like he's standing right behind his back, and a prickle crawls slowly down his spine. Pikachu nuzzles his side a bit, noticing his discomfort. The woman clicks her tongue.

"Of course, one option doesn't necessarily exclude the other," she adds. "Perhaps he's taking his time observing you _because_ he thinks he can get you back whenever he wants."

Brock frowns. "But if he's really been observing Ash all along—then isn't there a chance that we're being watched even now? I mean—what if he's sent someone to follow him all the way here?"

"I thought of that, and I took precautions to ensure it wouldn't happen. I chose this location for our meeting for a reason. The route James was instructed to take is only possible by air. Anyone following them from the ground would have been forced to loose them at one point. And to follow someone by air, well, is quite hard without being noticed at all. I trust even James would have been able to tell if some aircraft was following the balloon."

"...Yep, pretty sure I would have," he concurs, tossing the stick over the fire. She gives a slight nod.

"I have a safe house in Viridian City," she goes on, taking her glance back to Ash. "Several of them, actually, but one is enough for our purpose. I am reasonably sure that Giovanni is not aware of it. James will take you there. I will not go with you—Jessie will accompany me back to my house as soon as our conversation is done. I will be in touch, but the less I run the risk of being seen with you the better for all of us."

"Can we go with him?" Misty wants to know. The woman considers.

"In a different situation I would advise against it—returning to your normal lives as soon as possible would look far less suspicious. But given that Giovanni probably already knows that Ash has been with you all along I doubt he would be fooled, so it doesn't really make that big a difference in our case. Although we do need you back in your position at the gym for our agreement to be worth anything."

Misty straightens her back a little, her hands tight. "I'm not leaving him alone until I've seen this place and I'm sure it's safe."

The fire paints orange brush stokes on her face. Something pops—sparkles fly up in a swirl and die onto the grass. Her eyes look aflame too, like mirrors, and the woman watches her and lets out a "mh".

"Go with him, then," she concedes. "Both of you, if you want, but keep in mind that it cannot be a very long stay. If you want my help you will have to trust me."

"You're in good hands," says Jessie. She stretches her legs out in front of herself, a slightly bored look on her face. "Believe me, I wouldn't have gone to her if I didn't think she was the right person."

Ash raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, well. Not like you're the first I'd trust either, y'know," he remarks, and her glance shoots to him immediately, but after a second her frown scrunches into something resembling awkward guilt and she takes her eyes off.

"...Fine. Can't really blame you for that, I guess."

"Someone will meet you in Viridian City," the woman continues. "I will ensure that it is someone trusted. They will take you to the safe house. I'm going to ask for a definitive answer now—are you still convinced that you want to go through with this?"

Misty and Brock look at each other, then at him. He sinks his teeth into his lip, hugging his knees a little closer.

"If—you guys are okay with it."

They exchange another glance and Misty turns back to the woman. "We are."

"Very well," she says. She looks at James. "Give me your map."

He stands to go retrieve it from the balloon. In the brief silence that follows Misty leans over to him and strokes his arm a bit: "It's gonna be okay," she whispers, but he can't bring himself to meet her eyes.

James hands the map to the woman and she fishes a pen out of her pocket and marks a spot on it. "Land on the intersection between Chartreuse Street and Shamrock Lane. Look for a black van," she says. She gives it back and stands up, smoothing wrinkles and bark out of her skirt. "I will get in touch with you when necessary."

"Wait—" says Misty. The woman stops halfway through turning away, a silent question in her gaze.

Misty takes a huff of breath. "Can we—know your name at least?"

"You don't need it," she answers. Her glasses catch the light from the fire, masking her eyes. "If you want something to refer to me by, Mrs. R should be enough."

She heads off then, nodding for Jessie and Meowth to follow. Jessie lags behind for a couple moments still.

"Good luck," she says finally before turning to leave. Ash bites the inside of his cheek and watches as they step out of the clearing and into the dark, followed by the sound of their footsteps, then by silence.

***

_He still thinks about his friends sometimes. Not so often, not anymore—it's getting harder and harder to picture them without their faces twisting in disgust, without their eyes turning away from what he's become. It's getting harder to picture their faces at all: the details blur at the edges, a bit fainter each time. He's starting to struggle to remember what Pikachu's weight felt like on his shoulder, or the exact green Misty's eyes turned in the sunset, or the tired fondness in Brock's voice when he had to deal with their daily spats. They're slipping away._

_But sometimes if he shuts his eyes hard enough he can still pretend that they'll be there when he looks, and that they will still want him back, that they'll forgive him for not being stronger than this. So he does it while the helicopter lands, curled up around his knees. He does it until the sound of the door being opened rips his fantasy from his grasp._

" _Get out," one of the men says. He looks: they're not there. So he does as he's told, because he knows he can't do anything else. His breath fogs in the cold night air._

_(Who is he trying to fool, anyway? He knows they'd never forgive him.)_

***

The black van Mrs. R told James about is already awaiting when they reach Viridian City.

"I can still turn around and take you back to Pallet if you want," he says, one hand still grasping the knob on the burner. "Last chance. I'm sure she won't mind."

Brock lets out a sigh. "We don't really have an alternative."

They approach the van cautiously, James first, then the three of them. It's early: the street stretches out empty and quiet, the only movement a scrunched newspaper page swept at their feet by the wind. It's not really a threatening kind of emptiness, but Misty slips Gyarados' pokéball back in her hand anyway, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and Pikachu frowns at the van and a sparkle or two flickers around his cheeks.

Sitting at the wheel there's a woman with jet-black hair tucked under a beret and big sunglasses to shield her eyes. She rolls down the window when she sees them, leaning out a bit.

"Who sent you here?" she inquires. She looks closer to what he had expected—she's well built and she's wearing a sort of uniform, although a plain black one with no red _R_ s on sight; and his throat feels a little dry as he swallows. There's something about her face that looks vaguely familiar, too, but he can't seem to pinpoint what. James steps ahead and answers for all of them.

"Mrs. R."

She nods. "Get in the back," she says, then stops them when all four make to do so. "Not you," she tells James. "Get that balloon away from here. It's not exactly _subtle_ , you know. Might as well leave a flashing arrows sign that says 'that way'."

He pauses and looks at the balloon, then back at them. "...Well," he goes, kicking loose crumbles of asphalt. "I guess this is it then. See ya, kids. I hope everything works out for the best."

"Thank you for all the help," Misty tells him. A slight smirk finds its way to the corners of her lips after a second. "Oh, and thanks for all the cookies too while we're at it."

James blinks—then understanding sinks in and he half-jumps back, a panicked look on his face: "The coo—wait, you _knew?!_ "

"Yeah." She lets out a small hint of a laugh. "I saw your balloon. It was really nice of you. Say thanks to Jessie and Meowth for me, alright?"

"Cut the tearful goodbyes, we don't have all day," the woman steps in. James raises a hand to stroke the back of his neck.

"Yeah. Um, well. Glad you enjoyed 'em." He looks at him. "And glad you're alive, kid."

He waves his hand in something vaguely resembling a salute, then turns on his heels to leave. The woman nods towards the back of the van again.

"Get in."

They do, after exchanging dubious glances. He's been on other rides like this, ones that would take him to people he was supposed to hurt or steal from or both, and his breath hitches in his throat a little as the doors slam shut leaving them in the near-dark. Being able to make out his friends after a couple seconds only makes it marginally better, because the guilt of having dragged them into this is still worse than everything, and he sits crumpled around his knees and avoids their eyes as the van starts up. None of them speaks.

It's not a long ride. They stop some odd fifteen minutes later; there's a pause and the sound of a shutter closing, then the doors of the van open again and the woman tells them to get out. Ash blinks a couple times as his eyes get used to the light again, although there's not much of it: they're in what looks like a basement, only faintly lit by a couple narrow windows high up on the walls. He jumps slightly as he turns to the right—there's someone else, a man in a similarly black uniform standing with his back to the wall next to a metal door. Misty's fingers brush his wrist a little, halfway through reassuring and alarmed.

The woman takes off her sunglasses and beret and heads in that direction, running a hand through a mane of kinky black curls. The man doesn't speak, just nods at her as she walks by. She nods back and opens the door: "This way."

They follow. She flicks a switch and rows of lightbulbs lit up beneath them, outlining a metal staircase stretching far down. And he thinks of the dark in his cell, the kind of dark that only happens so far underground that not even the slightest crack of light can filter under a door, and his throat is dry, so unbearably dry. He thinks of how the hours and days and weeks blurred and bled together in that dark.

"It's nicer than it looks," the woman says. He buries his nails into his palms until they burn as the staircase groans under their steps.

There's another door at the bottom, and she opens that one as well and hits another switch. She's right: it's nicer than it looks. It's still underground and still lit only by the sickly yellow light of a few lightbulbs, but the room they're staring into actually kind of looks like a house. There's a doormat and a couch and even fake plastic plants scattered around.

"Feel free to make yourselves at home."

He walks in first, with Pikachu on his tail. There's a kitchen in a corner and shelves stocked up with canned food and some bunk beds beyond a half wall, and he can see what looks like a bathroom through an open door. There's a TV, too, a small thing with rabbit ears. He stands in the middle of the floor for a moment, biting down on his lip, then turns to look at the woman.

"Could I—leave?" he asks. He breathes in. "I mean if I wanted to. Would I be free to go?"

She raises her eyebrows. "That would be pretty stupid, considering we're doing all of this specifically to keep you protected, but yes, you would be. You're not a prisoner here."

"We'll be staying here for a few days too, if it's not an issue," says Brock. "We just want to make sure it's safe, that's all."

"I've been told," she nods. Her eyes are golden, Ash notices now that she's no longer wearing the sunglasses; the same color Mrs. R's looked to be in the firelight.

( _I have three children of my own—well, they're not really children anymore_ , he remembers her saying.)

"Who's the guy upstairs?" Misty inquires. The woman's eyebrows shoot up a little again.

"A friend," she says. "Same as I am."

Brock looks around, bringing his hands to his hips. "Do we know for sure that Giovanni doesn't know about this place?"

"We don't know for sure that there's anything in all of Kanto that Giovanni isn't aware of. But if it helps, Mrs. R kept this place for her own family."

Ash bites his lip again and runs his eyes over the room one more time. "Is there—" he starts, then stops, swallows, tries again. "Is there any way I could contact my mom to let her know I'm okay?"

"She will be informed," the woman replies. He takes his glance back to her.

"I'd rather inform her myself."

"If you made a phonecall from here he would be able to trace it back to your location. It's a risk we can't afford, I'm sorry."

He finds nothing to retort. "My friend and I will be guarding the building," she adds. "You should find everything you might need down here. There's an intercom you can use over there, near the TV, but try to save that for emergencies. Mrs. R already told you that she'll get in touch when needed, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She pauses for a second, then gives a small shrug. "I know feeling like you're trapped in a hole in the ground might not be ideal, but trust me, considering your situation this is probably the safest you can be for the time being. You can call me Abbie, by the way."

She turns to leave without further ceremonies. "Thank you," Misty tries to tell her. "For—all of this."

But she shrugs her words off. "When you can honor your half of the deal, that'll be enough of a thank you."

***

_The lock on the window gives under one last turn of his crowbar. He takes a breath, the cold biting sharp at his lungs; then pushes the window open and slips inside. The five men follow like shadows._

_The apartment is silent. He stumbles on something—some takeout box—and freezes, expecting a light to turn up somewhere or the sound of footsteps; but nothing comes, so he swallows and forces his feet to keep moving, one hand reaching for the pokéballs at his belt. The dim light coming through the window is enough to make his way through the room, dodging more takeout containers and a pile of clothes hastily thrown next to the couch._

_The boy is asleep in a bedroll on the floor of his bedroom. He looks even younger in person—maybe he isn't older than him at all after all. Ash slips one of the pokéballs on his palm, pressing his thumb over the release button: "Arbok."_

_A red flash and the pokémon materializes at his feet. At his nod it slithers over to the boy, stopping with its jaws open in front of his face. He swallows again, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt; then steps forward._

" _Wake up," he says. The boy stirs. His eyes open by a crack, then snap wide and he half-jumps back, groping for his own pokéball belt on the floor behind him. He's not stupid—he was expecting something like this to happen. But the belt is just out of his reach and Arbok's fangs are enough of a threat to keep him from attempting to sit or turn around, and Ash walks up to him and kicks it away._

" _Giovanni wants to see you," he informs him. "You can either come with me willingly or I can take you to him."_

_The boy shoots him a furious glare over his shoulder. "Who the fuck are you? His faithful servant?"_

_He spits the words out, but there's a tremble at the bottom of his voice. Ash's insides twist. But he feels the men's stares on his back, piercing, cold._

" _You can either come with me willingly," he says again, "or I can take you to him."_

_The boy looks at him for a second still. Then suddenly props himself up and tries to catapult himself out of the bedroll and stand—but "Arbok, bite!" he commands before he has a chance to, and the pokémon's jaws lunge forward and sink into the boy's arm and he falls back to the floor with an agonizing scream. What little Ash had to eat for dinner tries to climb its way back up to his mouth, but he forces it down and tries to keep his words from shaking: "Don't try that again."_

_The boy's eyes turn back to him, his face a knot of pain and anger. "Bet you're proud of yourself," he manages to gasp, his fingers grasping his now-useless arm. "Following the boss's orders like a little trained Mankey. Think you'll earn his favor doing this?!"_

Shut up, _he wants to scream,_ shut up, it's not like that, you don't know anything. _But instead he grits his teeth. Instead he thinks of the whips whistling through the air, of the sound like snapping branches when he felt his ribs crack._

" _Stand up," he says. The boy mutters a "go die" under his breath. Ash gives him another few seconds, then walks up to him and grabs him by his arm, pulling him to his feet._

" _I said_ stand up _."_

_I can no longer restrain it_

_my strength, it is fading_

_I have to give in_

***

There isn't a lot to do. Misty sighs and declares that she needs a shower ("I need to get used to sleeping outside again," she adds, undoing her ponytail and trying to untangle her hair with her fingers, and he wonders what she means with that _again—_ that she expects that things will go back to how they were before?), and he watches her shut the bathroom door and flops back on the mattress and stares at the springs above. Pikachu curls up on his stomach after a moment, carefully avoiding his healing wound.

It's weird—it doesn't bother him. It's still hard not to flinch when someone touches him, even Misty, still hard to feel fingers on his skin and not think of pain first, his or someone else's. But Pikachu's weight feels different somehow, almost like something that had been missing from his body all along.

"So how did it go at home?" Brock asks after a minute. Ash winces some.

"I don't really wanna talk about it."

There's a pause, but not a long one. "Well, Pikachu looks really happy to see you."

He can hear a smile in the tone of Brock's voice, and for a second maybe his own lips fold into a slight smile too. He runs a hand through the pokémon's fur.

"Yeah."

Brock is silent for a moment again. "We're all glad to have you back, Ash," he tells him then. "I hope you know that."

Maybe, but he doesn't want to think about it, so he sinks his teeth into his lip and rolls to his side to look at him, forcing Pikachu to jump down. "Misty told me you're thinking of becoming a pokémon doctor," he says to change the subject. Brock seems somewhat surprised, like he wasn't expecting an attempt at some actual conversation; then smiles again and nods.

"Oh, yeah. It's true. A few months back I took some of the gym's pokémon to the pokémon center, and some medicine students were there for their internship. I got to take a look at what they were doing, and... what can I say, I really liked it. I felt like I was watching someone who had a real purpose." His glance trails off a little, following his thoughts, and something about his face seems to light up in a way he hadn't quite seen before. "I guess I like the concept of it. I mean helping something to heal. Helping to... fix something that's been broken."

Ash listens, his fingers slightly clasped on the blanket, and an undefined lump catches in his throat. Beyond the bathroom door the water stops. "...You think that's something that can be done?" he asks after a moment. "Fixing something that's broken?"

"With the right amount of time and care, yes. I believe it's possible."

He chews down on his lip, tugging at the blanket a little harder. "But what if—a thing gets so broken that you can't even tell what it used to be?"

"You're not a thing, Ash," Brock says. He swallows and says nothing. Pikachu nuzzles his face, curling up again next to him.

Brock lets out a small sigh. "Listen," he starts. "I'm sure Misty already told you this, but if you ever feel like talking about what you've been through we're both here to listen. I mean, you don't _have_ to, it's not—it's not an _order_. If you don't feel like it, that's fine too. All I'm saying is, you're not alone anymore. We're here if you need us. We can help."

He doesn't really believe that, but he tries to force his lips back into that shadow of a smile anyway. "Thanks." But he pauses then. "...I don't really feel like talking about it right now."

"That's okay," Brock assures him. "I didn't mean _right now_. Whenever you'll feel like it."

The bathroom door cracks open and Misty walks back into the room, wiping a towel over her hair. She drops it on one of the beds, stands there for a moment as if trying to think of something to say, then turns suddenly to Brock and a grin spreads on her face.

"Hey Brock, did you tell Ash about your girlfriend?"

Ash blinks and props himself up on his arm. "...What?"

"She's not—she's not my _girlfriend_ ," Brock stammers, flushing bright red from ear to ear. Misty's grin widens.

"Almost." She elbows him a bit. "Come on, you know I'm right."

Ash sits up. "...What are you guys talking about?"

"Brock met a girl who actually likes him back," she explains, turning to look at him. Brock gives an embarrassed burst of laugh.

"Yeah, huh, we—she's one of the students I was telling you about, you know, at the pokémon center. She—she's from the Sinnoh region, she came here for her specialization. And huh, well, I hadn't really noticed her at first—"

"You didn't _notice_ a girl?"

He brings a hand to the back of his head. "Yeah, I, I wasn't—really feeling my usual ladies' man self, you know, with..."

He doesn't go on. Ash raises his eyebrows, looking away.

"I get it. 'Cause of me."

"Not because of _you_ ," Misty tries to retort. He shakes his head.

"It's okay. Go on."

Brock sighs. "Well, as I was saying, I didn't really notice her at first. Then one day I was watching her and the other students perform a medical procedure, and she was really good at it, and she noticed I was interested and she explained me what she was doing and so we started talking, and I told her I was starting to consider getting into medicine studies as well. And then we went for a coffee, and we saw each other a few more times after that. Her name is Arianne. She—she's gone back to Sinnoh now, but we've kept in touch and she's coming to Kanto again in a few months."

"I've met her once," says Misty. "She's really nice. And apparently she loves Brock's family because she was always alone growing up and she always wished she had that many siblings."

Ash stares at both of them. "...You guys aren't messing with me, right?"

"We're not, but it would be nice of you not to react like a girl being interested in _me_ is the most unbelievable thing you've ever heard," Brock grumbles, dropping his arms in defeat. Ash shakes his head a little again.

"Sorry. It just... kinda really is."

Misty snorts. And there's a funny sort of feeling somewhere in his chest, a ticklish bubbling thing, and before he realizes it a tiny hint of laughter tumbles out of him too. He hadn't heard himself laugh in forever, and he pauses, surprised. He gets what they're doing—telling him about something _normal_ to try and take his mind off everything, to try and make him feel part of that too. But it worked, if only for a blink.

"...Okay. Sorry. Congrats, Brock."

Misty walks to the bed and sits down next to him, giving Pikachu's back a quick ruffle. "And you still haven't heard the most unbelievable part," she says. "She invited Brock for that coffee. Not the other way around."

She smiles, but he can't help noticing that the curve of her lips looks weary and there's slight purple shadows under her eyes. She has to have barely gotten any sleep over the past week. Brock too, probably, and that glimmer of normalcy he felt slips suddenly from his grasp as guilt rears its head again. So he attempts again to smile back because it's probably what she hopes to see, but it comes out wrong: it's fake, like those stupid plastic plants.

But maybe he can at least keep trying, even if it feels pointless. Maybe he can do at least that for them.

_(You think that's something that can be done? Fixing something that's broken?)_

***

Bet you're proud of yourself, _the boy told him. He hears those words over and over in his head as the helicopter takes them both back to the base, like a blade twisting and twisting in his guts, and his nails claw at the skin of his arm until it bleeds._

***

Abbie comes to check that everything is alright come the evening. She informs them that they've detected nothing suspicious around the building, then leaves again, her steps echoing along the metal staircase.

That night he doesn't sleep. He lies folded around his knees in the dark and stares at the wall, his heart hammering a little too loudly in his back, feeling the weight of the concrete around and above and expecting to hear Giovanni's footsteps coming closer, closer. _You're not a prisoner here_ , he tries repeating himself again and again, but they're only words. They won't convince his hands to quit shaking.

It's probably around three or four in the morning when he hears a gasping breath come from the top bunk. A sound like a smothered whimper follows, like lips pressed against the palm of a hand to keep the noise in, and then more gasps, muffled as well. He looks up and stares at the springs for a moment. Then sits and pushes the blanket aside, careful not to wake up Pikachu as well.

When he climbs to the top bed Misty is half-sitting up, her hand clamped over her mouth and her shoulders shaking. Her eyes run to him and then away, and she dares to take her hand off, careful, like she still expects a scream to come out.

"Sorry," she says. Her voice trembles a little as well. "Did I wake you up?"

He shakes his head. "I was awake already. You okay?"

"Yeah." She runs her fingers through the tangled snarl of her hair, pushing it away from her face. "I just—I have nightmares too sometimes."

Her brow is clammy wish sweat. He bites his lips and remembers the way she hurled her worlds at him as he sat on her couch, his own world still trapped in his chest: _every time I thought things were getting a bit better, every time I tried to go on. I'd just wake up screaming all over again._

"Yeah, you—mentioned that."

She doesn't say anything. Ash bites his lip harder. He thinks of the first night he spent at her gym and how she tried to help him when he woke up from his nightmares. How knowing she was there did make the dark a little easier to bear after all.

"You, huh," he tries, then stops, swallows; goes on. "Want me to—stay here a bit?"

Misty looks back at him, surprised. He gives a slight shrug. "I couldn't sleep anyway."

She watches him for a moment still. Then her lips fold slowly into a smile, although shaky as well, weak at the corners.

"That's really nice. Thank you."

So he lifts himself to her bed and sits on the edge of the mattress as she lies back down, his legs dangling in the air. She curls up a little bit, brushing a strand of hair away from her face again.

"It doesn't really happen that much anymore," she tells him. Her glance drifts to nothing in particular. "I guess all the craziness of these past few days finally caught up with me."

She tries to say it lightly, like it's something silly, even forcing a small laugh out of her throat. But her voice still isn't completely steady. He doesn't know what to retort other than _I'm sorry_ , so he sinks his teeth into his lip one more time and says nothing, his hands tightening on her blanket.

She doesn't seem to mind. She's silent for a moment; then takes a sharp breath. "Most of the times it's—I just see you in your sleeping bag. And I think you're just sleeping, but then I go to shake you and—" She can't go on, but she doesn't need to. She already told him what the nightmares were about. He watches her press her lips into a thin line and then force herself to go on: "And the worst part, well, it's—in the dream I always know that it's my fault, because—because I wasn't there. Because I didn't help you. Because—something happened to you and I was sleeping."

Ash's insides twist. For a handful of seconds he can't do anything but look at her. Then he shakes his head, a growing weight on his chest.

"Sorry that—you thought it was your fault."

Her eyes turn to him. "I'm still not all that sure it's not."

"It's not your fault."

"How can you tell? Maybe if I'd been awake I could have—"

She stops, her voice on the verge of cracking again. Ash breathes out in a sigh.

"You wouldn't have had the time to do anything. He sent people trained just for that, they're good at their job. I hardly had the time to realize what was happening myself. You wouldn't have been able to stop them, even if you saw something."

"You don't know that."

"I've seen them in action. Trust me."

She looks away. "Well either way at least I would have known to look for you."

He sighs and shakes his head again. "Listen, I can tell you what would've probably happened if you saw something," he says. "Your body would have been found with mine in the river. Except it would have really been you. He would have made it to look like an accident, maybe I fell and you tried to help me or the other way around, and voila, no witnesses again, no one who could tell what really happened, exactly like he wanted. Or if they let you live then they would have killed you as soon as you started digging for the truth." He pauses, staring at the dark of the room; then kicks his heel against the ladder. It hurts a little. "So I'm glad you didn't see anything."

Misty just stares at him for a while. Then sits up and scoots over next to him, her legs dangling below. She takes her head in her hands.

There's a part of him (and it's almost all of him, really) that wants to believe that Giovanni was right. That he's no better than him, that he deserves nothing but all the pain he got. Because if he deserved it there's at least some rhyme or reason to everything; if he deserved it then it's easier to crush all of his anger and fear and hurt into a ball and shove it deep down where it can barely reach him anymore. Easier not to feel anything at all, just like he wanted.

He wonders if she feels something similar to that. If some bit of her somewhere _wanted_ it to be her fault, because in some twisted way having herself to blame made it easier to make sense of.

And if she's wrong, then maybe—just maybe—there's a chance that he might be wrong too.

So, "It's not your fault," he says again. And maybe he's saying it to himself as well.

***

" _Of course, you know that disobedience can't go unpunished."_

_He does know. But his stomach turns upside down at the sight of the boy and the man holding the whip, and he balls his hands tight into fists hoping that he won't see them shaking. He wants to take his eyes off more than he's ever wanted anything, but he knows he can't._

_Giovanni takes a step closer. "You made me proud tonight," he says. Then his lips twist into a slight grin. "I have one more task for you, since you did so well. I want you to be the one to do it."_

_Ash follows his glance from the whip to the boy and wants to vomit. "No. I—no. I won't do this. Not this."_

" _Well, that's disappointing," Giovanni comments. The grin stays. "But you see, I'm not asking. I'm giving you an order. And you know what that means, no? If you disobey you will need to be punished too. It would be a shame, after you did such a fine job."_

_Ash shakes his head. His breath hitches stuck in his chest, heavier than a stone. "Please," he tries pleading. It comes out all shaky, almost like sobbing. "Please don't make me do this."_

" _It's your decision at this point, really. But know that if you choose to disobey me I will be_ extremely _disappointed. Your punishment will need to be an adequate one to match."_

" _Please," he tries again. But he thinks of pain. Red, screaming, tearing him to pieces. He thinks of lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of his cell for days, barely managing to swallow a sip of water at a time without throwing up. He thinks of healing wounds splitting open again and again._

_The man clicks the tip of the whip against the floor._

" _I'm waiting," Giovanni reminds him. The boy can't speak through the gag covering his mouth, but his glance says enough:_ coward.

_He closes his eyes, pushing a sob back down in his chest._

_He takes the whip._

_(_ Bet you're proud of yourself. _)_

_(Later, when he's done, Giovanni claps his hands._ I knew you could do it, _he says._ And do you want to know what I find most interesting? I didn't _make_ you capable of this. You always were. It was always within you. All I did was bring it out. _)_


	8. Chapter 7

"You guys can leave if you want, y'know."

The instant pancake mix Brock found on one of the shelves sizzles in the pan. Across from her Ash sits with his head slumped on top of his arms, the chair rocking forward a bit: "I mean, we've seen the place now. Doesn't look that bad. You don't have to stay."

"Yes we do," she retorts, earning a cross glance in response. Brock flips a pancake in the air.

"We're not going to leave you with just anyone, Ash," he says. "We still don't know anything about these people. Abbie seems alright, but she's not a woman of many words, is she? And that other guy didn't even open his mouth. I'm not sure I trust them just yet."

Ash puffs his cheeks. The chair legs thud back to the floor. "I can defend myself if I have to."

"The goal would be that you don't have to." Brock lifts the pan off the flame and walks to the table to deposit a couple pancakes in front of his face. "Eat. If you get any thinner you're going to disappear, and then we'll have done all of this for nothing. Careful, they're hot."

He sighs and straightens his back some, poking them around with his fork. "I'm just saying, you don't have to waste your time stuck here if you don't wanna."

Misty stretches one leg under the table and kicks him a little. "We're not wasting our time. We're spending it with you," she remarks. She crosses her arms: "What, are you tired of seeing us already?"

He looks up. Pikachu climbs into his lap to sniff at the plate and he jumps slightly, taken by surprise; then the curve of his shoulders relaxes again and a tinge of smile reaches his lips. His fingers brush the pokémon's fur. "I'm not."

"Great, then quit that. We're not leaving."

Brock is back to pouring batter in the pan. "Need a hand with those?" she asks, and he pauses and throws a concerned look in her direction, the spatula raised mid-air.

"Err, I'm good, thanks. I think I prefer you away from any kind of cooking."

"I know how to make pancakes with _instant pancake mix_ ," she protests. Brock's eyebrows shoot up.

"...Yeah, well, I'd much rather not take the risk. Hey Ash, ask her about that time she tried to make dinner and I almost ended up in the E.R."

"That wasn't my fault! There was something gone bad. It was an accident. And you're exaggerating anyway."

A slight chuckle comes from the other side of the table. "Gonna side with Brock on this one. I remember your cooking," Ash says. But as her eyes run back to him the sort-of-smile on his face falters—fades again. He presses his lips together and swallows, pushing the half-eaten pancake around in his plate. She remembers that too: the lumpy purpleish sludge her attempt at a stew turned out to be, and his horrified face when she tried to hand him a bowl of it all gloating and proud. Not longer than a couple months after that she'd wake up to find him gone.

_It's not your fault,_ he told her last night. She keeps turning those words over and over like he did his pokéball clock, not knowing how to fit them into herself.

"...Let's just agree you have stronger suits," Brock adds after a beat, perhaps noticing the heavier silence. His hand gives her shoulder a quick squeeze before laying some pancakes in her plate as well.

Ash heads for the shower as soon as he's done eating. Brock's eyes follow him thoughtfully, his lips pursed as he begins to stack their dirty plates into a pile. "I think—he's a little better, maybe," he says as the sound of running water comes from behind the bathroom door. Misty raises her eyebrows.

"Do you?"

He shrugs a little. "He's smiling a bit. He's asked me about my intentions of taking up medicine studies, he seemed actually interested. I don't know, I'm just guessing but—I think it's something, at least."

Misty leans her cheek against her hand with a small sigh. "He's told me a little," she tells him. "I mean about... what happened while he was there. Not much but—a couple things. There's probably so much worse."

Brock doesn't ask, but she can feel a question hanging in the pause that follows. She bites down on her lip and says nothing. After a moment he releases his breath slowly, setting the question aside.

"You can't... undo a whole year in a few days," he states, putting the plates down in the sink. Ceramic clinks against metal. "Especially a year like that. And this—this whole situation probably isn't helping. But we can make an attempt to start, at least. I think—as long as we remind him that we're here and that he's not with that psycho anymore, that's still better than nothing."

"I just want to get my hands on that piece of shit and make him regret even _thinking_ about it."

Her voice cracks a bit on the last couple words, anger spreading like ripples on the water. Brock turns to look at her.

"I'd find that very satisfying too, I'm not going to deny it. But getting revenge wouldn't change what happened."

"It would make me feel better, though," she grumbles. He lets out a sigh.

"Maybe for a minute," he admits. "How are you feeling, anyway? Revenge intents aside?"

"I'm okay." But it rolls strangely on her tongue, like foreign syllables. She pauses for a second. "I think. I'm still not entirely sure I believe this is really happening. I keep wondering if—I'm dreaming it or something and sooner or later I'll just wake up."

Brock's lips fold into a slight smile. "I can pinch you if you want."

"I tried that." She smiles back, but her throat catches on a lump: she swallows it and shakes her head. "Brock, what do you think of this place? I don't want to leave him here alone."

"We're still not leaving," he reminds her. He raises a hand to stroke his chin, his glance trailing off a little. "I'm not sure what I think yet. Maybe I could see if they let me stay a while longer."

"Think they'd allow it?"

He shrugs again. "I'm not as important as you for the deal after all. You know, that _former_ gym leader thing."

He stresses the word on purpose, trying to force out a lighter tone; but a tremble stirs suddenly at the bottom of her chest and rattles up all the way to her lips. Her chin quivers. "This sucks," she says, and it's a much better fit than _I'm okay_. "It's not fair. It should all be over already."

Brock tears a paper towel from the roll on the counter and hands it to her, and she blows her nose and then crumples it angrily into a ball. "It will be," he tells her. "It might take a while but it will. We'll go back home and we'll take Ash home too. I'm sure of it."

Pikachu gives her cheek a nuzzle. She tries to steady her breath: the water of the shower's stopped. She stands to throw away the towel and then starts to fold the tablecloth.

"By the way, what I said before," Brock says after a couple moments, turning the knob on the sink, "that you can't undo a year in a few days. That goes for you as well, you know that, right? I mean—knowing that Ash is alive _now_ doesn't change the fact that you had to go through all the mourning and everything. So it's okay if you're not okay. It's okay if—it takes a while for you too."

She stops for a second, her hands tightening on the fabric. She breathes in. "Thanks, Brock."

He smiles. "We're going to be fine. Hang in there," he promises. But his eyes wander off again as he does, and it sounds a little like he's saying it to himself as well.

***

" _You should like, think about it at least."_

_She sighs and finishes sprinkling pokémon food in the water of the aquarium, dusting the last few crumbs off her fingers. Her Horsea and a few Goldeen crowd under the surface to eat. "I already thought about it, Daisy. I said no."_

" _Oh, come on, it'll be fun! You totally nailed the part that other time. The audience loved it."_

" _That was a long time ago."_

_Daisy must notice the sharper edge in her voice, because she actually shuts up for a second. "...Well, it'll be even better this time," she says then, though. "Violet really outdid herself with the script, you should read it, I was like, holding my breath the whole time. It's like a wintery thing, set in an arctic sea, we'd have fake icebergs and snow, you know, to go with the season! And the main part is just perfect for you."_

" _I'm sure you'd do just as fine," she retorts. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and climbs down the ladder, and shakes her head as her feet touch the floor. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I don't feel like it."_

" _I'll wait a couple days," Daisy insists. "So you have some time to think about it. Come on, sis, you could use a distraction."_

" _I don't need a distraction, I have plenty." She folds the ladder and leans it against the wall, rolling her eyes a little. "You know,_ work _. You might have heard of it once of twice."_

" _I meant other than that. And I do know what work is, for your information."_

_Misty scoops up Togepi from the floor and turns around. "You could have fooled me," she comments. She shakes her head again then."Really, Daisy, it's nice of you to worry about me, but I'm fine. I already have all the distractions I could need. And I'm not really in the mood to wear a costume and pretend to be a mermaid in front of a hundred people anyway."_

_Daisy puckers her lips and there's a silence of the kind she doesn't like—the kind that stretches out awkward over a pause, a reminder that people look at her and see the seams of where she has been broken. She raises her eyebrows. "...Fine," her sister gives up after a moment. "But if you change your mind you can like, still tell me."_

" _Don't count on it. And try not to leave a mess in the gym afterwards like you do usually."_

_She's done with her duties for the day, so she heads off, listening as the echo of her footsteps follows her along the hallway. Only once she's past the corner and out of Daisy's sight her defenses do finally give way, and she stops for a second, holding Togepi tighter and taking a breath in a shaky swoop. It's like stepping on a missing step every time—like feeling solid ground under her feet one moment and empty air the next. The last time her sisters managed to coerce her to participate in one of their ballets she ran her eyes over the crowd from the top of the diving board and he was there._

_A long time ago indeed._

_She's halfway to her room when the doorbell rings. "I'll go," she calls out; and quickly pushes the same unruly strand of hair back into place, hastening her steps._

_Cold air slips in immediately as she cracks the door open—along with a familiar ball of striped yellow fur. "...Hi, Pikachu," she greets him with a smile; then opens the door all the way. "And hi, Mrs. Ketchum. Did you come all this way with this weather?"_

_Delia smiles back at her. In less than seven months she looks like she's aged two or three years at least: creases fold around the corners of her mouth and there's gray in her hair, slowly creeping its way down from the roots. She's holding a pink round box in her hands. "Hi, honey," she says. "I had a couple errands to run here in Cerulean and I thought I'd stop by to say hello. And I had these cupcakes I baked yesterday before I realized there were too many for me, Mimey and Pikachu alone and it would have been a shame to let them go to waste. May I come in?"_

_She's pretty sure that the errands are an excuse, and that she didn't bake all those cupcakes on accident at all, but she nods, the knot of pain in her chest suddenly not as tight as it was moments ago. "Sure."_

***

The images on the TV screen keep coming and going, flaking around the edges. Ash flips through the channels without seeming to pay attention to any of them, his face a bored blank in the flickering blue gleam. After a while he stops, though, and his fingers stiffen around the remote, a slight frown creasing his brow.

She looks. On the screen an audience is cheering, the logo of the Indigo League glowing in a corner. A Tauros rams itself into an Electabuzz's middle a fraction of a second before the other pokémon delivers an electric attack and sparkles go flying all over, and a cloud of dust blinds the camera as both slam against the arena floor. Ash's teeth sink into his lip. The image wavers—freezes, comes back; the dust flies away in swirls.

"Do you miss that?" she asks after a couple moments, as the Electabuzz stands staggering back up. He blinks and turns to her.

"Huh?"

"Battling. Do you miss it?"

He doesn't answer right away: his forehead furrows deeper like he needs to think about it first, like he hasn't asked that to himself in a while at least. Finally he shrugs.

"I did have pokémon while I was with Giovanni," he says. His arm pulls his knees a bit closer. "It wasn't—anything like real battling though. They just catch them and train them to follow whatever order they're given. Even killing if you tell them to."

He looks away. On the screen the Tauros is still standing as well, its hoof scraping the ground. "They weren't even my pokémon, not really," he adds. He turns the TV off and throws the remote aside on the cushions, startling Pikachu a little. "You're not supposed to have any sort of bond with them, they train that out of 'em. It's like they make them into... things you can replace."

The hand still around his knees pulls at the fabric of his pants until his knuckles turn white. Misty swallows. She thinks of what he told her a few nights ago, of how his pokémon were killed after his failed attempt to escape, but it's not just that that makes her throat feel like sandpaper: his words sound familiar. She looks at the scars on his arm and wonders what he would say if she asked how they do that, and her crumpled insides tell her that she knows some of it already. Ash shift uncomfortably on the couch, noticing the prolonged silence.

"Anyway. I dunno if I even... remember how to have a normal battle."

"Of course you do," Brock chimes in gently. Ash shrugs again, though.

"Doesn't really matter. It's not like I'm planning to do any battling anytime soon."

There's hardly any emotion in his voice, but his eyes stay glued to the floor and his shoulders slouch a bit lower as he speaks. Misty purses her lips.

"We could have one," she suggests. He looks back up.

"What, a battle? You mean in here? We'd wreck everything."

"We could push the couch out of the way and make some space. What do you say, Pikachu? You up to it?"

The pokémon nods with a cheerful "pika!", and for a second—a blink, barely—there's a spark in Ash's eyes, a glimmer of a light she still hadn't seen since she opened the door in the middle of the night to find him standing there. But he lowers them immediately after and shakes his head, hugging his knees closer still.

"No, thanks. I don't—feel like it."

Maybe she could insist some more, see if she could find that small spark again. There's a noise before she can attempt to, though—the muffled clang of footsteps on the stairs, and all three turn to look at the door at once.

The footsteps reach their level and Abbie walks in, her sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. "Still all clear," she announces pushing the door closed behind her back; then unhooks a pokégear from her belt and holds it in their direction. "And Mrs. R has something to say to you."

Ash straightens his back a little, dropping his feet to the floor. "Won't Giovanni be able to track the call?"

"It's a secure line." She walks to the couch and hands the pokégear to him. "Neither end can be intercepted. You're good."

He frowns, but takes it and flips it open. She and Brock both lean closer to see as the small screen lights up: Mrs. R's face comes into focus after a moment, a line of static running through the image. "I hope you're getting used to the place," she says, her voice a crackle through the speakers. Ash gives a small shrug.

"It's fine."

She nods, but the line of her brow is crumpled at the middle into the harsh knot of a frown. "I got in touch with a contact within the Team's headquarters," she comes to the point. "I asked for reports on any unusual activities. Apparently, over the course of the past forty-eight hours a number of tracking parties have left the base. My contact didn't know what they were for, and I suppose there is a chance that it is a coincidence, but I think it's quite safe to assume—"

"He knows," Ash interrupts her. He swallows: "He knows that I got away."

"Aye, that's what I was going to say." Static flares up across the screen for a second before the signal settles again. "If that is indeed the case, it pretty much confirms that he has been observing you this whole time and that he hadn't taken action yet only because he was confident that you were still within his reach. But that's changed now, or so it looks."

Ash presses his lips together and says nothing. Misty shakes her head

"But if you have contacts inside the headquarters—that must mean you know where Giovanni is, right? Can't you just—get your police department to him and get his ass in jail? There has to be someone who's not on his side."

The woman looks at her. "It's much easier said than done, child. It's not finding him that's the problem. There's been many an attempt in the past to 'get his ass in jail', as you put it, and so far all have failed. The evidence will disappear or be found inconclusive, admittedly sometimes because of what I do, or all charges against him will be suddenly dropped, or he'll receive a tip-off that could come from nowhere else than from within the force. Knowing where he is means little when his connections make him virtually untouchable."

The silence that follows feels heavy. "Hopefully, that's going to change eventually," she picks up after a brief pause. "As I have mentioned to you already, many people are working against him, both from within and from outside the organization. The highest our numbers, the weaker Giovanni's empire will be. But it's a long process, and a delicate one." She turns back to Ash. "I called to inform you of that new development and to reinforce that it is crucial to your safety that you remain in hiding in the meantime. Giovanni had an advantage until now in knowing he could get you back with little effort. We've taken that from him, and he's not going to like it."

Ash shrugs again, his eyes wavering away from the screen. "It's fine. Not like I was expecting to leave anytime soon anyway."

"I'll get in touch again when I have further developments," Mrs. R says. Her glance runs to her and Brock: "As for you two, don't forget our deal. You can stay a few days longer, but afterwards you will have to be back at your gyms."

The screen goes black almost abruptly. Ash holds the pokégear for a couple moments still, then closes it and hands it back to Abbie. He wraps his arms back around his knees as she hooks the device to her belt.

"So he was watching me all along," he says, and his voice sounds strange, not exactly shaking but not quite steady either. Almost—

...almost _relieved_. Like not knowing was worse, like having confirmation means now he can at least stop wondering. Misty lays a hand on his arm. She can feel a tremble running through it.

"He's not gonna get to you," she tells him. She turns to Abbie: "Right?"

"That would be the purpose of all this." The woman's hand lingers distractedly on her hip: there's a holster there, Misty notices, the grip of a gun sticking out. She doesn't remember seeing it yesterday. "If you don't need anything I'm going back upstairs. Can't have too many eyes out there."

"We're good," Brock answers. Abbie nods and turns to leave. The sound of her footsteps follows her all the way up; then there's silence, spreading out thick like a blanket.

Ash takes a breath and lets it out slowly. Brock sucks his lower lip against his teeth, tapping his fingers on the edge of the couch.

"He doesn't know where you are. If he did he wouldn't need to send out all those people. He's not going to find you, we're safe down here."

"I know." But his voice still comes out weird, still wavery under the surface. He swallows, then grabs the remote and turns the TV back on, turning the volume up until the audience is cheering so loudly that there's no space left for thoughts.

***

_The cupcakes are frosted pink like the box, multicolored sprinkles dusted on top of each. Lily pokes her head in the kitchen and comments on how pretty they look until Delia tells her to have one, and take some to the others too._

" _How are you doing, Mrs. Ketchum?" Misty asks, scratching Pikachu's fur as the pokémon climbs eager into her lap. The woman smiles faintly._

" _I'm getting by. I get a little lonely sometimes. I've been helping Samuel—I mean the professor, taking care of Ash's pokémon, but with this cold most of them prefer to stay huddled up inside their pokéballs. I can't really blame them."_

" _I should come to visit more often."_

" _Oh, don't worry, dear, I know you have a lot to do here. And I have Pikachu and Mimey to keep me company." Delia's glance trails off a bit, her smile still holding but faltering at the corners. "Sometimes I forget. He was away for so long that it's... so easy to see an empty house and think that he's just on one of his journeys and he will be back."_

_Misty presses her lips together and finds nothing to say, a lump swelling in her throat. After a moment Delia blinks and turns back to her. "But I didn't come here to talk about me. Tell me about you, honey. Are you doing alright?"_

" _I'm trying." Togepi waddles around on the table and she leans over to catch it and set it back before it gets too close to the edge. "Taking care of the gym sure keeps me busy a lot, but I like it. I like having something to do."_

" _I'm very proud of you," Delia says. She seems to notice the shift in her eyes then, though, and the worried ripple of a frown creases her brow: "What's it, honey? You can tell me."_

_Misty looks down. The cupcake in her plate is still untouched, small pink crumbles scattered around. "Nothing. It's just that—I'm trying. And it's working, I'm okay. Not always, not all the time but—a lot more than a few months ago." She shakes her head. "And then sometimes I feel like—I shouldn't be. Like it's wrong that I even_ want _to be, that I'm even trying, because—because it's kind of like forgetting, isn't it?"_

_Because he died while he was alone and maybe it was her fault, maybe she could have stopped him if she'd just heard him walk away; and when today Daisy came to tell her about the ballet she was feeding her pokémon and before then she had been battling opponents and mopping up the wet floor and the thought of him hadn't crossed her mind in hours. Delia looks at her in silence for a few moments, then moves her chair closer and gently lays one hand on hers._

" _Did you ever cut your hand on a piece of glass, honey?" she asks, her voice soft. Misty looks back up and gives a confused shrug._

" _Yeah, I—dropped a glass once, why?"_

" _And did you ever find a piece of glass on the beach?"_

_She nods. She'd find some in the sand around Cerulean Cape sometimes, made opaque and round by the waves. "Did that one cut as well?" Delia asks._

_Misty shakes her head. Delia pauses again, her eyes wandering across the table like she's collecting her thoughts. "I like to imagine that—all the grief and the memories are like a piece of glass. I'll always carry it with me, for as long as I'm alive. Right now it still cuts. But time will do what the sea did to the one you found on the beach, eventually, and maybe there will be a day when all the sharp bits will be gone, or maybe there will always be some left and I'll still cut my hand on them from time to time thirty or forty years from now. But it will never be smoothed to nothing. It would take much longer than my life for that." She squeezes her hand a little before letting go. "You're not forgetting if you're not hurting all the time. And I know for a fact that Ash would be just as proud of you as I am for holding on."_

_Misty bites her lip and stares at the crumbles in the plate, her throat tight. "It's okay if you can't believe it right now," Delia adds when she doesn't speak. "But promise me you'll give it a bit of thought. It doesn't have to be now. Can you do that?"_

_Her lip is caught between her teeth still, hurting. She nods._

" _Yes. I—think I can do that."_

***

"What are—the others up to?" Ash asks later, and it kind of sounds like an attempt to fill the silence and push the thought of Giovanni from his mind as well, but at least it's one that includes her and Brock instead of building a wall. He unfolds a little, his arms resting on his knees now instead of wrapped tightly around them. "I mean Tracey, the professor. Gary. How are they?"

"They're okay," she answers. "Tracey is still working with the professor. I hear from him often, I know they're working on a project together lately. He's drawing illustrations for the professor's latest study and it's going to be published with both of their names."

Ash is quiet for a moment, a flicker of smile in his eyes. "And Gary?"

Misty purses her lips a bit and turns to meet Brock's eyes. "Gary—took what happened to you kind of hard," he says before the silence stretches for too long, picking the words out carefully. Ash looks at him with a frown.

"Gary? Seriously?"

"Yeah. The same Gary you're thinking of." Brock smiles slightly. "I guess he cared about you more than he'd let on most of the time. And after you, well,"—he gives a small sort-of shrug, letting the sentence fall off—"he really threw himself into training, more than he ever had. And he won the Johto League."

Ash sits up straight so abruptly that Pikachu is startled again and jerks his head in concern. "What?"

"And that's not the 'taking it kind of hard' part," Misty sighs. She laces her fingers around her knees. "He refused the trophy."

He turns back to her and blinks slowly. "...What?"

She bites her lip. "Yeah. He said—that there was someone who deserved it more and couldn't be there. He didn't say a name, but—I think we can guess who he was talking about."

"Wha—you mean me?" Ash stares at her and then at Brock. "...You guys _are_ messing with me now. Admit it."

"We're not," Brock says. "You could ask pretty much anyone and they'd confirm. It was talked about on the news for days. No one had ever done something like that before."

"But—why?"

Brock's eyes wander across the room, stopping on one of the fake plants near the door. "I don't know Gary all that well. But if I had to make a guess I'd say that your rivalry was... something of a driving force for him, and once you—once we all thought you were dead, well, it all felt kind of pointless. He couldn't beat you anymore, and you couldn't beat him, so instead he won and then made his victory basically worth nothing. That way he did neither." He lets out his breath in a sigh. "He retired from training after that. He decided to follow his grandfather's footsteps and take up studies to become a pokémon professor instead."

"He's doing okay, I think," Misty adds. "He's in Sinnoh studying now. He's working as an assistant for a famous professor there."

Ash says nothing. He leans his chin on his knees and stares ahead, his face all scrunched up in a frown. For a while he just sits like that, mulling over his thoughts.

"You know, you're not responsible for what Gary decided to do, if that's what you're thinking about," she tells him after a bit. Brock's stood from the couch to put together some dinner; the soft sputter of something boiling comes from the kitchen corner. Ash chews down on his lip, his eyes still scrutinizing the floor.

"It's just—" he says. He swishes the words around on his tongue, not quite managing to get them out. "You and Brock stopped traveling, and then—Gary stopped training altogether."

He doesn't add anything else, but the way he pulls his legs closer to his chest again says enough. Misty sighs a little and follows his glance to the same empty spot.

"Well, it's... you know, Ash, it takes a while to—find yourself again after something hurts you really bad. It's not your fault. It just does." She pauses for a moment and presses her lips together: she remembers curling up under her blanket, eyes shut, making the same wish over and over. "It's like—everything you did before suddenly doesn't mean anything anymore, because you're hurting, and that hurt is—it's all there is. And you think you'll never be okay again. But then—time doesn't stop, you know? And eventually you have to do something, even if it's just—to fill the time before you can go back to sleep. And maybe that something isn't what you were doing before, but you realize it fits you, and... you kinda start feeling like maybe you can have a purpose again."

She stops again. Ash still doesn't say anything. "I think—we're not exactly the same people we were a year ago either," she adds. Then turns to him and shrugs, pulling her lips into a smirk. "But you still like us, don't you?"

That earns her a surprised almost-smile. He lowers his eyes back to the floor then, shaking his head. "You're still you."

"But we had time to heal."

He seems to actually consider that for a moment. She thinks of something his mother told her once, months ago, about glass smoothed by the sea. About how time takes all the rough edges, all the splinters, slowly. She could tell him that maybe it'll be the same for him too even if his hurt is not the same as hers or Brock's or Gary's, but she doesn't think he'd believe it, and she's not all that sure she does either, so "Hey," she says instead, and she tucks her chin in her hands, looking at him: "Wanna promise me something?"

Ash gives her a questioning glance. "We'll have that battle," she tells him. "Not right now. You're right, that was kind of a stupid idea. We'd risk destroying the whole room. But when we can all get out of this place. When we'll be safe and that—psycho piece of shit will be sitting behind the bars or whatever. How about that?"

He looks away and his breath falters a little, like the answer got caught in his throat. "Unless you're too scared to lose," she tries teasing. That works, and his eyes shoot back up.

"I'm not—"

"Great." She straightens her back and holds out one hand. "Then we can agree."

Ash just stares at it. "It's gonna be—a long time from now," he says, and she knows she's thinking about Mrs. R's words. She gives a small shrug.

"It might, yeah."

He swallows. Pikachu nudges him—nods his head in her direction in a silent _come on_ when Ash turns to look. Ash's eyes turn back to her outstretched hand, and somewhere at the bottom of them a spark glimmers again, quiet, like the leftover embers in the remains of their fire, still bright red in the dark. Like something not done with, not gone. The pause stretches on for a bit still; then he unwraps one arm from his knees, uncertain. His hand lingers in the air for a moment. For a bit longer than that.

He takes a breath. "Fine," he says finally, and closes the hand around hers. And it's more than just the promise of a battle—hidden at the bottom there's the tentative promise to believe that yes, they will all get out of there; and that sometime-not-right-now his answer maybe won't be _I don't feel like it._ When she glances up he's looking at their hands as well.

She strokes his knuckles with her thumb a little. Then grins: "Well, get ready then, because I'm going to whoop your ass."

He gives a small exhale of a laugh and lets go. Yeah, she tells herself, it might be a while before they can actually keep the promise, before she can take him home again without having to fear that someone will be lurking in the dark, but at least she got that out of him now. And even if it lasts barely a blink before he withdraws back into himself maybe it's still worth something.

***

" _Sooo, any chance you changed your mind?"_

_Her sister sticks her head out of the door, her hair wrapped up in a towel. Behind her the bathroom has faded into a cloud of flower-scented fog. Misty rolls her eyes a bit as she walks past her: "Nope. I'm sure you'll be perfect for the part, Daisy."_

" _You could have a smaller role if you want. Like a supporting character or something."_

" _Still no." She reaches her room and turns the knob, pushing the door open. She lets out a sigh before walking in. "Maybe next time."_

_The door slides closed behind her back with a soft click. She flicks the switch and leaves Togepi on her bed, and in front of the mirror she undoes her ponytail and runs her fingers through the tangles of her hair. Her arms drop slowly at her sides after a few moments, her hands tightening around the edge of the drawer. She stares at her reflection for a while._

_He died while he was alone. She said he would never be, once, what now feels like a lifetime ago, but in the end she wasn't there when he needed her the most. Maybe she would have been if she hadn't been asleep, if she hadn't been angry. Maybe he was scared, maybe there was time for that. Maybe he tried to call for help and no one heard._

" _Toge-pri?" Togepi calls her from her bed, a tinge of worry in its voice. "Yes," she says, snapping out of her thought a little; but her eyes linger on the mirror still. In the end she bites her lip and pulls open one of the drawers. She sets aside a hairbrush, a book, a bottle of glittery blue nail polish Violet gave her. A handful of seashells she picked on the beach._

_The photo is still where she left it. On the small glossy surface Ash's fingers are grasped tightly around her wrist, dragging her towards she can't remember what. Her other hand is a blur, caught halfway through pushing her hair away from her face, and her mouth is awkwardly half-open in the middle of a word, but he's looking straight at her and his smile is brighter than the lights in the background. She forgot that photo had been taken until Brock found it tucked somewhere in his backpack, after._

_(_ Did you—? _, Daisy almost asked her once, and then hurried out of her room without finishing the question.)_

_She runs her fingertips over their joined hands, slowly. When she first saw it again it felt like someone had stuck claws through the gaping hole in her middle, twisting and tearing at the edges to rip her in two. Now she stares at it, her breath caught in her chest, bracing herself for that pain to double her over. Trying to will it to when it does not._

_It hurts, yes. But not like that. Not like splitting into pieces._

_Her teeth press again into her lip. Between the seashells she's pushed to the side there's a piece of smooth glass, deep green, polished clean by the waves._

_Togepi calls her again. "Yes," she says a second time and picks the photo out of the drawer, and after a moment of hesitation tucks it into the frame of her mirror. She pushes the drawer closed, leaving Delia's words with the seashells and the glass. "I'm okay. Sorry."_

_She turns around. Togepi waves its arms for her to pick it up again. "I'm okay," she says one more time as she heads back to the bed, maybe to herself. She still doesn't feel quite ready to look at those words more carefully, not right now, but it's alright. Maybe next time._

***

There's footsteps on the stairs again later in the evening, heavier ones, and their attempt at a conversation halts into a cautious silence. The footsteps get closer, stop; the door opens.

The man they saw yesterday when they got off the van leans against the doorframe, without stepping in. "Just chekin'," he says, brisk. "Nothing new so far. Need anything?"

Ash shakes his head. "We're okay. Where's Abbie?"

"On watch." The man's eyes run over the three of them, narrowing slightly as they get to her and Brock. "The two of you gonna stay long?"

Something about the tone of the question seems somehow off, like it's not really a question, and the hair on the back of her neck stands up a little. "Actually, I was going to ask if I could stay with Ash a while longer," Brock says, sitting up straighter on the couch. "I mean since I'm not the most important person for our deal, with the fact I'm not the current gym leader of Pewter City."

The man looks at him. "Thought you had the terms of that worked out already."

"We do, I just thought that since I'm not as valuable to you as Misty is—"

"Then you've got your answer."

His face is unfaltering, cold. "We said we'd stay a few days," Misty remarks, frowning. "It's not even been two yet."

He takes his glance back to her. "Don't test our patience too much," he says. "You might end up regrettin' it."

He turns to leave before she can retort, kicking the door back in place with his heel. Again there's the echoing groan of the staircase, the distant clang of the door at the top shutting closed. Silence.

"I don't like that guy," she says, and her fingers grasp the edge of the couch a bit, the words more urgent on her tongue than she'd want them to. Brock looks at the door.

"...Yeah, me neither."

Ash is quiet. His eyes are on the door as well, his brow crumpled. The silence lingers for long after that, tense and heavy.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: I know, I'm late. And I was so proud of myself for managing to keep a semi-regular schedule, gah. I'll try to get back on track with the next chapter. In the meantime, thanks for reading!

_Blood is warm and sticky under his palm—his blood or the man's or both, he's not sure, his side hurts bright red with every step but he can't stop to check, can't stop to catch his breath either, if he stops they'll get him. Mud sucks at the soles of his boots and he half-stumbles, staggers forwards, somehow manages to regain balance; branches crack under his feet. His heart is a desperate drum in his back, thumping loud-loud-louder, and without slowing down he fumbles to unbuckle his pokéball belt and lets it drop to the ground, lets it go thud in the dark but it's not enough, surely they're right behind him, surely soon he'll hear their footsteps and there'll be fingers grasping his arm and_

his eyes snap open. It takes a handful of seconds before his breath unhitches from where it got stuck in his lungs—before he makes out the wall and the pillow and remembers that he got away, that he made it to Misty's gym and that that was over a week ago. His shirt drenched with sweat, he curls up around his knees and tries to convince his heart to stop pounding, breathing in ragged gasps: he got away. He got away, they're not there. Around him the room is quiet. Looks like he wasn't screaming for once, at least.

Or almost quiet. There's a rustling between the blankets and Pikachu wriggles himself under his arm, nuzzling and licking his face until he manages to pull his lips into a wobbly sort-of-smile. "I'm fine," he whispers; "Sorry I woke you up, buddy." But he lets the pokémon snuggle in the space between his legs and his chest, his hands shaking still.

He got away. Except not really, did he? Even when he thought he had he never really broke free from Giovanni's grasp. It only loosened slightly, just enough so he could peek through his fingers to see what he would do. And even now his reach extends far enough that the only place where maybe he won't find him feels like another prison.

Falling back asleep doesn't really seem an option, so he rolls to his back after a while, throwing one arm over his still-clammy forehead. Something at the corner of his eye catches his attention and he turns, frowning: Brock's bed on the other side of the room is empty. Ash sits up and glances at the bathroom door. The light there is off, but the room's not completely dark either—there's a blueish gleam coming from beyond the half wall, flickering with movement.

He pushes the blankets aside and stands. Misty is asleep in the bunk above his when he looks up, her hair a red snarl on the pillow; and he lets his breath out a little. He lingers for a second and then heads towards the source of the light. The soft patter of Pikachu's footsteps follows after him.

The TV is on in the other room, muted; scenes from some old black and white movie flash silently on the screen. In the semi-dark Brock is sitting on the couch, bundled up in a blanket. The light from the TV paints a blue shine on his face, but his eyes are fixed on the door instead like he's waiting for something to happen. Ash watches him for a bit, frowning still.

"Brock?"

He jumps slightly. Then turns and his features soften into a tired-looking smile: "Hey Ash. Didn't hear you there."

"What are you doing?"

Brock purses his lips and lets a breath out in a small sigh. "Maybe nothing," he finally answers. "I just, well. That weird scene last evening didn't exactly leave me trusting these people any more than I did before, so I thought I'd keep an eye out for tonight. Just to make sure everything's chill."

"You didn't say anything."

"Didn't want you and Misty to worry more than necessary. You both deserve some rest."

Ash doesn't reply. After a couple moments he walks to the couch and sits down, gathering his knees to his chest. "You can get back to bed if you want. You don't need to stay up as well," Brock tells him, shifting a little to let Pikachu climb between the two of them. He gives a shrug.

"It's fine," he says. On the TV screen a masked man with a sword is riding a Rapidash across a gray plain. "I wasn't gonna sleep anymore anyway."

"Still having nightmares?"

"Yeah."

"It'll get better, I'm sure. Give it time."

"Doesn't really matter. It's not—the nightmares I'm mostly worried about."

"I'm sure the rest is going to get better too."

Ash raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, right, and yet you're sitting here in the middle of the night cause you don't trust the only people that can help me."

"It might be just me being a little paranoid," Brock says. His lips stretch into a smile that trying to be reassuring, maybe, but the shadows under his eyes kind of tell a different story. "I mean, after all they _are_ putting their life in danger to help us, and we're complete strangers to them. Maybe it's not all that unreasonable that they're impatient to see something a little more concrete than promises in return."

_But you don't think that's all there is,_ Ash wants to retort. But instead he leans his chin on his knees and stares at the blue-tinted floor, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that hasn't quite left his gut since last evening. "Maybe you should just do what they want and leave then."

"Not until we're sure that we're leaving you in good hands. We've been over this Ash, you're not getting rid of us so easily."

He can tell he's trying to get a smile out of him, but his stomach's suddenly scrunched up tighter and it takes him a moment to consciously make out why: they're leaving. Now or in a couple days, that doesn't change much in the end. He didn't think it'd be hard to just hide somewhere away from everyone at first, when he had barely managed to reach Misty's gym and he was already prepared to leave again—he had endured the silence and isolation for so long that he'd forgotten there was anything else. But now it's different, isn't it? He's let himself get used to having them around, a little, and he didn't really realize it was happening but it must have because now the thought of giving that up again for who knows how long feels—feels—

( _scary?_ )

He can't quite find the right word—he's spent too long trying not to feel anything for that. But it's a crumpled squeezed up thing somewhere in his middle, and he pulls his knees closer, sinking his teeth into his lip. He doesn't want them to go, that's it.

"Can you do me a favor, Brock?" he sighs after a moment. Brock turns to look at him.

"Of course. Anything."

Ash bites his lip again. "Be careful," he tells him. The words are heavy. "I mean when you leave. When they ask you and Misty to do—whatever you'll have to do to keep your part of the deal. I've seen Giovanni just get people killed without thinking twice. If he really thinks you're getting in his way he won't stop just because you're kind of famous and it's gonna make a stink. He's not—someone who jokes around when he wants something done."

_Don't look away,_ he remembers his voice saying as he laid in front of him the pictures of the family and the burned house. _I want you to keep this in mind. Remember that this is what happens to those who think they can trick me._ "...Yeah, I think I'm starting to see that," Brock says with a deep breath. "You have my word. I have every intention to do that. You know, that was kind of the point of this whole 'sitting here in the middle of the night' thing."

He says nothing. Brock pauses again, resting his chin atop his hands. He studies the silence. "What do _you_ think, Ash?" he asks after a bit. "Honestly. And don't give me that _I can defend myself_ shtick. Forget about that for a second. Do these people seem okay to you?"

"I dunno," Ash shrugs. "Mrs. R seemed sincere when she said all that stuff. Abbie looks fine too. That guy was just weird." He shudders and glances up. On the TV screen the masked guy's swordfighting his way across a mob of bandits. "Can we talk about something else, Brock?"

Brock tilts his head in surprise a bit, but nods then. "Alright. What do you want to talk about?"

"I dunno. Something. How's your family?"

It could be any other question, probably—mostly he just wants to hear about something not to do with Giovanni, with the four walls around them. Brock seems glad he asked, though. "They're fine," he says. "Well, more or less, at least. My parents are a disaster at taking care of the gym, but I've been helping out, and my brother Forrest is determined to take up the gym leader role and he's training like mad for it. Oh, and my sister Yolanda started her journey as a trainer this past April, last I heard from her she already had five badges."

He keeps talking, his voice quiet as to not wake up Misty as well. Ash listens, slips in a question here and there; smiles some even. Laughs a bit once, as Brock tells him of how his mother tried to turn their gym into a water type one overnight and gives a convincing impression of his father's dramatic reaction. And just for a little while maybe he lets himself forget.

***

_It's by pure chance that he gets another occasion to run._

_There were some before. There was that time that the Dragonair Giovanni wanted him to steal managed to break free from the cage and knocked out two of the men that were with him with a hyper beam. He could have tried to run then—for a moment there was enough chaos that maybe he would have managed. But there were other people in the way, alerted by the noise. If he ran they would have been the ones to pay for it, like the little girl with the Eevee, like the pokémon he sent to die._

_So he didn't._

_The dig site is empty. Ash kicks a pebble with his booth, sending it rolling somewhere in the dark._ It's an easy job, _Giovanni said:_ there might be a couple guards, but nothing you shouldn't be able to handle. _There was one guard, but he was standing with his back to the rock and his head lolling forward, dozing on his feet, and it took him a moment to call one of his pokémon out of its pokéball and knock him unconscious. Easy, he thinks. It leaves an ironic aftertaste, like a sourness lingering at the roof of his mouth._

_He turns the yellow beam of the flashlight around, towards the entrance of the cave opening agape on the side of Mt. Moon. "That way," he says. The men follow him without a word._

_Inside the cave it's pitch black—the flashlights barely manage to reach the stalactites hanging over their heads. The darkness is cold and drippy, dank in his nostrils. They follow the wooden beams holding up the ceiling along a few twists and turns, their footsteps a loud echo between the narrow walls; and finally the cave opens into a larger chamber and there are the moon stones, so many of them, shining a quiet silver shine under their lights._

_They fill two sacks with them. They go back then, but as they retrace their steps something rattles in the dark above, a sound like crumbling, like gravel hitting stone. Ash stops and flicks the flashlight up. "Some problem?" one of the men urges him, and as he does Ash hears it again, the same sound but longer, a handful of sand pattering over rocks._

" _Heard that?"_

_There's silence for a second. Then the sound comes once more and this time it doesn't stop, it grows in a roaring crescendo, and maybe they triggered it with some incautious move or maybe it was something else but a moment later the ground's shaking under his feet and there's dust falling from above in heaps, falling on his face and in his eyes, and there's a loud sudden CRACK and the roof of the cave collapses on itself. Or so it seems—it's only a couple boulders that fell, but for a few moments the air's nothing but dust and there's coughing and cursing and one light hits the floor and goes off and_

(now now NOW do it now you might never get the chance again)

_Ash drops the sack with the stones and the flashlight and runs. He makes it to the entrance of the cave, but it's not enough—outside it's all bare ground and rocks with nowhere to hide and they're right behind him already, if he tries to run for the trees at the edge there'll be nothing to shield him and they're too close, they'll get him for sure. So instead he throws himself to the left and presses his back to the side of the mountain, his heart slamming against his ribs. "Let's split," he hears one of them say. "He's still around."_

_A cold dagger sinks into his gut: the locator on his pokémon. He forgot, Mew, he_ forgot _, how could he be so stupid? He looks down at his pokéball belt, but it's too late to get rid of it now, he's got nowhere to go and they know he's close, they know he didn't go anywhere. His breath hitches in his chest and he shuts his eyes for a moment, shaking. He can hear footsteps._

_Slowly, trying not to make any noise, he crouches down and gropes the ground for something, anything to use as a weapon. His fingers close around a rock. He nearly drops it; frantically grasps it again. He waits._

***

"Giovanni's tracking parties are still out there according to our contact," Abbie informs them in the morning. "So whatever he's after it appears he hasn't found it yet. Which increases the chances of it being you."

Ash swallows and smushes his lips into a thin line, his eyes on the floor at her feet. He says nothing, and next to him Misty presses her nails into the fabric of the couch a little, tossing the question back and forth on her tongue. She takes a breath. "Can we ask you something, Abbie?"

The woman raises her eyebrows in expectation. "It's—about your _friend_ ," Misty continues, and Abbie's eyebrow quirks a bit further. "You know, the other guy."

Silence still. The woman's expression says nothing but _yes, go on_. So she does: "We were wondering if—you're sure we can trust him."

There's another pause, although brief, and she's not sure she likes it. "Is there a particular reason you're asking?"

"It's just that he acted kind of weird yesterday," says Brock. "He seemed really eager to get us to leave. Sort of—well, threatening too."

"On the other hand he's mentioned to me that you had a request that wasn't part of our accord, though," Abbie remarks. There's a slight sharp note in her words, a flicker of—annoyance, maybe? Misty frowns. "Isn't that so?"

Brock gives a half shrug. "...Well, yeah, but I—didn't think it'd be a very big deal. I was only talking about a few more days. And Misty would go back to her gym exactly like we agreed."

Abbie brings a hand to her hip. Her fingers drum, close to where the holster and the gun are. "Alright. Listen," she says. "I get it, your situation is particular and you've been through enough hardships already. We've been accommodating for you for this reason. But we have a deal, and we've been doing our part with nothing but your word in return. My partner may have been harsher than necessary, but you _are_ going to have to do what you promised."

"We will," Brock assures her. "We still have every intention to, we're not backing out. We just want to be absolutely sure that Ash is going to be safe here, that's all."

The woman looks at him for a moment, then sighs and the curve of her mouth seem to soften slightly. "I'll talk to him. I'm sure I can convince him to be a little more patient."

"Thanks—"

She flicks her hand in the air in a hasty _don't-mention-it_ gesture. "Are we done?"

Misty gives a slightly uncertain nod. "Can I ask you something else?" Ash says though, and she turns to look at him again, as does Abbie.

"Go ahead."

Ash studies her for a moment. "Are you Mrs. R's daughter?" he asks then. Misty blinks a little and turns back to the woman, and—yes, how did she not notice? It's not obvious, but her eyes are the same gold, down to the darker specks around the irises, and something in the lines of her face looks similar as well, especially around the lips. Her brow furrows in surprise for a second, then she gives a somewhat amused smirk.

"Aye. Proudly carrying out the family traditions," she answers, pushing her sunglasses back onto her nose. "Got any more questions?"

They don't, so she turns to leave. "How did you know that?" Brock asks Ash, as her footsteps dim on the stairs. He shrugs.

"I guessed. They look sorta the same."

Brock ponders about it for a second, raising one hand to stroke his chin. "Well, at least this tells us something about her motives. It's also her family Giovanni threatened."

Misty bites her lips and sinks back onto the couch. "Yeah, I guess," she says, but the idea of leaving still feels like a hard knot in her throat. _I won't let anything happen to him this time_ , she promised Delia just a few days ago, and now she's gonna have to leave him with people she knows next to nothing about for what might be months. Maybe longer. Dismantling Giovanni's empire hardly even feels like a tangible possibility.

She lets out a sigh. "There's still that other guy though. I still don't like him. I don't care what she says."

"I'll be okay, guys. You can go," Ash says. But he's staring at the floor and his shoulders slump forward a bit. She turns to look at him teases a little, hoping for a reaction:

"Hey, you want us to leave really bad, huh? Well, tough luck. You're gonna have to put up with us for a while longer."

He glances back at her and smiles slightly, but lowers his eyes again after without saying anything. Misty sighs again, running hers over the room. She's hardly been here for two days and she's already memorized every corner and fake plant. Such a small space to spend months hiding in.

The knot hasn't loosened one bit. She tries to swallow it down, but it won't go away.

***

"Don't you miss your gym?"

Misty frowns. She's been telling him a few more stories about things that happened during his absence, until she seemed to run out and they slipped back into silence for a bit. He didn't mind, though, for a change; for a while it felt almost comfortable, almost free of horrible thoughts. "Yeah, I do," she says, then gives a slight shrug. She's sitting with her fingers laced around her ankles, her head thrown back against the couch cushions. "But it'll be there when I go back, right? What, are you trying to get me to leave again?"

She turns towards him with a smirk. "I'm not," he protests. He takes a breath then, trying to reach for the words far down into himself. They come out sort of choppy, stumbling where they shouldn't be. "And I—don't. Y'know."

"You don't what?"

"What you said before." He breathes again. "I don't—want you guys to leave. I mean it's okay and—I think you should but—I don't— _want_ you to."

It feels strange, pulling things out of his chest instead of pushing them further below. It's not painless, but it's a weird kind of hurt, one that feels somehow almost relieving. Misty looks at him for a moment and her smirk fades into something that's still a smile, sort of, but but stretched and a little wobbly at the corners. She shift closer and lays one hand on his arm. His first instinct is still to flinch, but he manages not to.

"It's just gonna be for a while," she says. She has to know that it's not true, though, and he lets out a small scoffing sound, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"Is it?"

"Well, maybe not a short while," she admits. "But it's not going to be forever. We need to have that battle, right? And Pikachu will be here to keep you company in the meantime. Won't you, Pikachu?"

Pikachu nods. Ash tries to stretch his lips into something resembling a smile as well, but doesn't look up. Misty's hand stays there. Her thumb finds the scar along his forearm and distractedly follows it a little. It's another unfamiliar sensation still, being touched gently. He forgot it was even possible.

Misty's thumb stops, still on his scar. "How did you get this one?" she asks after a moment. Ash sucks his lips between his teeth.

"It's—not really a nice story."

"Yeah, I figured that."

He pulls his arm away. "Well there isn't really a lot to say," he answers, wrapping it around his knees with the other. "I didn't do something Giovanni wanted. So one of them called out one of his pokémon and used it on me. A Scyther."

There's silence for a second. "What did he want you to do?" Misty asks then, a slight tremble in her voice. Ash pulls his knees closer.

"The same thing. Use my pokémon to hurt someone."

"And you refused."

"I stopped refusing at some point."

"But you did for as long as you could." She's quiet for a moment, like she's trying to think of what to say next. "I don't know if I would have been able to do that at all, Ash. Most people probably wouldn't have. You're not—a bad person because eventually you couldn't take it anymore. You're just a human being."

There's a bit of him somewhere that wants to cling to her words and believe that maybe they could be true, wants it desperately. But the things Giovanni said to him echo louder in his mind, and louder still the cries of pain, the screaming. He bites the inside of his cheek. "Yeah well, not like that changes anything. It doesn't—make all the people I hurt stop being hurt, does it?"

"No," she says. She takes a breath and lets it out in a sort-of sigh. "Fine. What about—all the people you _didn't_ hurt? All the people and the pokémon you helped or saved or—hey Brock," she cranes her head back, trying to look at him above the back of the couch. "Remember when we told you about that crazy thing that happened while we were traveling in the Orange Islands? When we visited Shamouti?"

Brock doesn't turn away from the pot and the stove, but there's a smile in the tone of his voice. "You mean when Ash ended up saving the entire world? Yeah, that's hard to forget about."

Ash swallows and says nothing. "Doesn't any of that mean something too?" she asks. He shrugs a little.

"I didn't really do all that much that time. And it's not like I had a choice anyway."

"But there were so many other times when you did. And you didn't even have to think about it, you just did whatever you could do to help, even if it meant getting hurt or risking your life." She shakes her head. "Do you have any idea how many times I watched you—throw yourself in the way of a hyper beam, or from a cliff or something equally stupid all because you saw someone who needed your help and I thought well this is it, no way that idiot didn't get himself killed this time?"

She stretches one foot in his direction and kicks him a bit, like she got retroactively mad just thinking about it. Then sighs one more time. "Really," she says. "You're the farthest I've ever met from a bad person, Ash."

He's not sure what to make of all that. _It's not your fault_ , he said the other night, to her and a little maybe to himself too, but it's another thing entirely to actually believe it. To even begin to.

But maybe it's okay if he doesn't make anything of it right now. Maybe he can just let himself _not think about it_ for a while longer. It's still more than he thought he'd ever allow himself to do.

***

_When the shadow of one of the men comes into sight Ash doesn't give himself the time to think._

_He jumps out of his hiding place and onto him. He's not exceptionally strong, not enough to overpower someone the man's size based on physical strength alone, but he's got something else: he's fast. Giovanni saw the potential in that and trained him to put it to good use. So he jumps onto the man and whacks him in the face with the rock, and when the first blow only manages to stun him he hits again and again and the third time he does there's blood, spraying warm on his face and his hand, and the man stands for another couple seconds and then slumps limp onto the side of the mountain. Ash almost falls with him, but heaves himself back to his feet and without wasting another moment starts running._

_There's voices: "He's there," "Get him," and then there's the thunder of gunshot and the night lights up in a flash for a fraction of a second. Another: a stab of pain runs through his side, red and burning and red, and he staggers and grunts through his teeth but doesn't stop._

_He makes it to the trees. Branches snap under his feet and slap him across the face, and he unbuckles his pokéball belt with shaky hands and drops it without stopping. He can't see anything. He almost falls once, twice; slams into something and almost goes flying. His side hurts, hurts, hurts, and it's sticky-warm and dripping under his palm, but if he stops they'll catch him, if he stops they'll take him back to Giovanni._

_He runs._

_He runs until he can't anymore. Until his legs give and he falls for real, hitting his knees first and his face second. Dirt goes up his nose. He gathers himself up a minute later, when he can breathe enough that he doesn't feel as close to passing out anymore, when the world stops feeling wobbly and thin, a little._

_It's still dark. The moon is a sliver of white above, shining the same silver shine as the moon stones. He doesn't dare to think it, not even now, not even when he holds his breath and listens and hears no footsteps, no voices. There's blood all over his side and his hand. His or the man's. He's not sure. It looks black in the moonlight._

***

_("Do you want to know what I find most interesting? I didn't_ make _you capable of this._

_You always were. It was always within you. All I did was bring it out.")_

***

It's late in the evening when there's noise coming from upstairs—voices, too far away to make out the words. Abbie's, then the man's, then a pause and Abbie's voice again, weirdly muffled, like she's trying to keep it down but speaking too urgently for that. "What the—?" Misty starts, the question an alarmed whisper under her breath, but Brock hushes her, his brow scrunched in an attempt to figure out what's happening.

There's another silence above, but one that feels unnatural and grating, like it's just waiting for something. Ash's insides squeeze together. It doesn't last long: suddenly there's voices again and what sounds like a struggle, something crashing. A loud bang. A pause, spread out thin and stretched; the stairs groaning under someone's footsteps.

Misty jumps to her feet and scrambles to get her backpack from behind the couch. She stands back up with a pokéball in her hand, the other not quite held up to shield him but almost, and Pikachu's at her side a second later. The footsteps keep getting closer, fast, going _clang-clang-clang_ on the stairs; and Ash thinks of different footsteps, of leather shoes clicking along a hallway, and a tremble sets at the base of his spine. He drops his feet to the floor to stand but there he freezes, his hands tight around the edge of the couch. The sound's louder beyond the door: almost there now, almost—

The door flings open. It goes slamming against the wall on the other side and the man barges in, a gun in hand. He waves it towards Misty and Brock, points it like it's nothing, like his finger isn't already on the trigger:

"You two. Out. Now. I'm damn tired of this. I've waited enough."

Misty flinched visibly when the gun flied past her, but now she doesn't move one inch. "What's going on? Where's Abbie?"

"Abbie's upstairs," says the man. His voice's calm on the surface but all raw edges below that, like a growl. "She's busy right now."

"Is she?" Misty holds her head up, her hand grasping the pokéball behind her back. "What was that we just heard?"

"We had a disagreement. It's all settled now. C'mon, get movin'."

"We're not going anywhere."

The man looks at her, a small turn of the wrist away from pointing the gun straight at her head, and Ash swallows what feels like a throatful of sand and wonders if that'd be enough for him to get up from the couch and push her out of the way. Probably not. There's a moment that seems to drag on forever; then Brock stands slowly, keeping his hands in sight. "...Okay, just—calm down. I'm sure we can talk this out."

"Enough with the talking," the man snarls. "You've done that already. That's all you've been doin' from the start, talking, talking and doin' nothing to keep your nice promises. I'm fed up with that."

"Okay," Brock says again. He keeps his hands up, palms facing the man. "There's no need for the gun. We never—we never meant to take advantage of you, I'm sure we can settle this misunderstanding."

"The only misunderstanding's the one that old hag made when she decided to deal with children. I've been doin' what I was asked. I want something in return."

"We're not going anywhere," Misty insists. Around the pokéball her fingers are shaking a little, but her thumb finds the release button, ready. "If Abbie's really upstairs let us see her. Get her to come down here."

Silence. Muscles twitch in the man's jaw. "What did you do to her?" Misty wants to know. She takes a huff of breath and releases it in a yell: "Abbie! Abb—"

"Shut that mouth."

"Or what? You're gonna shoot us? You won't get what you want if we're dead."

He shrugs. "There's two of you. Doesn't matter which one lives to keep the deal." He narrows his eyes then, like in an afterthought, and he does tilt his wrist—but not towards Misty. The gun's single eye stares Ash in the face. "Or maybe I'll just get rid of him and get this whole thing over and done with."

Misty's arm stretches in front of him in a blink and Pikachu jumps ahead, sparkles crackling on his cheeks, but there they both stop—he could pull the trigger way faster than Pikachu could deliver an attack, way faster than Misty could throw her pokéball. The air is dense, thick like molasses. Ash forces himself to take a breath of it. He lets go of the edge of the couch, slowly. He stands.

"Are you actually on our side?" he asks. His heart's thumping, but he's forced himself to stand though things much worse than this. Much worse than the maybe-empty threat of a bullet through his brain. "Or were you just pretending all along? Is that why you want my friends to leave so bad?"

The man doesn't speak. But there's another twitch around his eyes, and Ash tells himself maybe he's hit the mark. He thinks of the struggle noises minutes ago, of that heavy bang at the end.

_Abbie's upstairs. She's busy right now._

"What's gonna happen once they're gone? You gonna sell me back to Giovanni? Think you'll get some reward out of it?"

Misty's breath catches and she turns to look at him. He holds the man's glance, though. A moment goes by, then another; then finally the man drops the mask. One corner of his mouth rises into a crooked sort of grin. "Nothing personal," he says. "You just don't get an occasion like this twice."

Ash swallows again, his throat so dry it makes a clicking noise. The tremble he felt stir down his back rattles up all the way through him, but he sinks his nails into his palms and tries not to flinch:

"Fine. Then leave my friends out of this. You want me? You got me, I'm right here. Just leave 'em out."

"Ash—"

He takes a step forward. Then another. The man's eyes narrow further, studying his moves. Another step—Misty's fingers grasp his wrist, trying to hold him there. "Ash," she says again. He jerks his arm away and keeps his eyes on the man, on the gun still pointed at his face, thinking of what happened to the people and pokémon who found themselves in the way when he tried to escape, of the little girl with the Eevee, of his pokémon.

"Ash, wait—"

"Pikapi!"

"You stand back," the man tell his friends. "Keep that pokémon at bay too. And you,"—he nods his chin towards Misty—"drop that pokéball you've been hidin' the whole time."

"You're not gonna shoot him," she says, but her voice falters, unsteady. "If you want to bring him back to Giovanni you need him alive."

He shrugs. "Alive, yeah. But I'm sure the big boss won't mind getting him back with a couple holes. Drop it."

There's silence for a couple seconds, like she's trying to figure out if she's got any alternatives, then the thud of the pokéball hitting the floor. It goes rolling somewhere. He doesn't look—he keeps staring straight into the gun, and meanwhile considers his chances: the man's much bigger than he is. Two heads taller at least, and he can see the muscles bulging under his black uniform, muscles like Giovanni's men had, ones that could probably snap his bones in half if given the chance. He's armed. And he might very well have just killed or seriously injured Abbie in cold blood.

But he's got all the training Giovanni put him through. He's fast. He's _good_.

He takes another step and another. The man's grin stretches.

Ash hurls himself at him. He wasn't expecting it—his eyes widen, pupils contracting on gray-blue irises, and in the half-second it takes him to react Ash grabs his wrist and _twists_ , wrenches it backwards using his whole weight as leverage. A shot explodes towards the ceiling and it's loud, enough to deafen him, enough to swallow all sounds after in a muffled blur, and then the surprise advantage is over and the man tries to shake him off—but he holds on tight and uses the momentum to bounce back onto him. He's good: he's quick. He takes a blow to the stomach, dodges another. He hits back. He lets all the instincts Giovanni planted into him kick in; lets them take over.

_(do you want to know what I find most interesting?)_

Another blow takes him in the jaw and there's stars flying across his vision, red rimming his sight. Voices, coming faint and faraway like through cotton. They both crash to the ground. He strikes. Cartilage pops under his fist and blood squirts from the man's nostrils—fingers grab Ash's shoulder and slam him against the floor. But pain is just pain and he's used to it, he's used to so much more of it. So he kicks, scratches; hits. Heaves himself back to his knees. The man's below him again and Ash thinks of the bang, that loud terrible _BANG_ and the silence after and goes for the face, goes for where it's already red and smashed and bloody, goes for where it _hurts_ and hits; hits, hits.

( _I didn't_ make _you capable of this._ )

Then there's arms grabbing him by the waist, pulling him back. He grunts and tries to free himself from the hold, and his elbows slams into something soft and there's a noise, a sound like air pushed out of lungs in a huff of pain. But the arms don't let go.

"Ash." Misty's voice tears through the blur, shaking. His ears are ringing still. "Ash. Stop. It's enough, stop."

She holds him. The arms are her arms. Her breath's a warm frantic flutter against his neck, and Ash blinks and looks at the man again: he's lying motionless on the floor, his face a bloody mess. Ash's hands are bloody as well, red around the knuckles, and trembling, trembling so bad. He pulls away from Misty, his breath coming in uneven gasps that don't seem to fill his chest at all. The realization sinks into his gut like ice.

She saw it. Brock, too, and Pikachu. They all saw it, saw what Giovanni turned him into, what he's capable of doing, and now they'll be disgusted just like he said they'd be, they'll—

But Misty's hands are all over him again after a moment instead, closing around his shoulder, his face. "Ash," she says again, trying to turn him towards her. Her fingers press right where the man hit him and it hurts, silver sparks of pain flaring up in front of his eye. "Ash. Look at me."

He doesn't. He can't take his eyes off the man and the blood, not even when something nudges his leg and Pikachu calls him too, tugging at the fabric of his pants. "We need to leave," comes Brock's voice. "You knocked him out alright, but we'd better not be here when he wakes up. We need to get out. Come on."

He swallows and forces his feet to move. Brock's got their backpacks hooked over one arm, the pokéball Misty dropped in the other hand. He keeps looking at that, at his hands and the backpacks and the pokéball, not at his eyes. Not at any of their eyes.

Misty's fingers close around his elbow, pulling him towards the door. "Come on, we need to go," Brock says again, and somewhere at the back of his mind Ash thinks: _go? Go where?_

The staircase rattles under their feet. At the top Ash holds his breath, expecting to see Abbie's body lying somewhere in a pool of blood—but when Brock pushes the door open there's nothing. No body and no blood, just the near-dark basement and the van. Brock makes it to the shutter door first, slams his hand over the panel on the wall trying to open it.

"Stop where you are."

They turn. Abbie is standing next to the van, her gun unsheathed and pointed straight at them.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: ...Nope, still late. Clearly I shouldn't make promises. Although this time it's not entirely my fault, as real life also got in the way.  
> The lyrics quotes towards the end are from "Hand of Sorrow" by Within Temptation. Also: I'm sorry.

Her breath caught halfway out of her lungs, Misty stares at the gun in Abbie's hands. For a bright, cold moment time is frozen, stretched taut in the few meters between them, and her fingers tighten shakily around Ash's elbow—she's not sure if to try and pull him back or to keep him from doing anything or both. Her heart goes thumping in the echoing silence.

The woman takes a step forward. "Don't move," she says again. Light shines dimly through the open door behind her back, leaving her face in shadow. Somewhere at her left Brock takes a sharp breath.

"Wait, we can—we can explain. Your friend attacked us. We had to defend ourselves."

Abbie makes a scoffing noise. "That dumbass," she curses. The barrel of her gun glints silver in the almost-dark. "I should have known he'd only ruin my plans."

_Plans._ At once Misty clutches the pokéball Brock handed back to her before running for the door, cold sweat lining her palm. Abbie steps another step closer.

"I'm sorry things had to get this ugly," she continues. "I'd have rather avoided it. I was going to let you two leave so you wouldn't have to get hurt, but that moron just couldn't have some patience. No use trying to reason with him. He'd shoot me rather than wait a couple more days." Another step. She clicks her tongue. "Shouldn't have expected anything else from some gorilla with more muscle than brain, in hindsight."

A tremble stirs deep down in Misty's gut. She shakes her head and the words leave her lips like spit: "We thought we could trust you."

The woman shrugs. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only ones who did. My mother thought the same. The old woman's smart in a lot of ways, but unfortunately for her she can be quite blind when it comes to her family. And honestly, if this had been something smaller I'd probably have done what she asked. But the boss's own runaway son? The reward I'll get when I hand him back to him probably outweighs anything I'd ever gain out of all her scheming."

Misty swallows. Her throat's cotton dry. Fear and fury twist her insides and cleave her tongue to the roof of her mouth: careful, she turns the pokéball in her hand until her thumb finds the release button. She failed to do anything with it once. But now it's dark enough that maybe she hasn't seen it, won't see it until it's too late. Her fingers curl tighter around it, twinging. Ash is standing between her and the gun.

( _I'm sure the big boss won't mind getting him back with a couple holes_ , the man's voice sneers at the back of her mind.)

Abbie takes another step and Pikachu jumps in front of Ash, flaring bright crackling yellow, a low "chuuu" rising out of his throat like a growl—and it's barely a second, maybe even less, but for that long the woman's glance runs to him and it's enough, has to be. She takes the chance.

"Gyarados!"

The darkness flashes violently red as the pokémon takes shape. Even bowing down its head touches the ceiling. It snarls, roars; its back arches, blue scales glinting in the faint dusty light. Abbie quickly aims her gun at it, startled, then surprise leaves her stance and her lips stretch into a grin.

"Well ain't that a nice pokémon you got there. It would be a shame if it were to get hurt. Or worse."

"Let us go," Misty says. Her voice shakes, matching the wild thrumming of her pulse. She looks straight at Abbie and tries to keep it firm. "Let us walk out of that door and maybe I won't hurt you."

The woman exhales a brief throaty laugh. "You want no one to get hurt? Call your pokémon back," she nods her head towards Ash "and then step away from him."

"Gyarados," Misty whispers. She doesn't even have to give a command—the pokémon understands the gravity of the situation on its own and the burning glare of a hyper beam blazes up between its jaws, ready. Abbie's finger flexes on the trigger in the yellowish glow.

"Call. Your pokémon. Back," she says again, every syllable sharp in her mouth. A last warning. Misty shakes her head.

"Not unless you let us leave."

"Do what she said."

She blinks and turns towards Ash. He's staring at the floor still, his arm stiff in her grasp, his hand balled into a fist so tight she can see the tendons popping out like ropes, the knuckles white under the blood. She shakes her head again.

"No chance."

"Call Gyarados back," he insists. "Now. Before it's too late."

Misty grits her teeth. Then turns back at once: " _Gyarados, now—_ "

Abbie is quicker. The shots are deafening in the empty basement, one after the other, earsplitting and terrible. She can almost feel them cut through her, a sudden gaping void, and maybe she screams and maybe Brock has to grab her by the arm and hold her back. Gyarados recoils, staggers—lets out a furious, bellowing wounded cry. Abbie fires again. Gunsmoke hits Misty's nostrils like a slap.

But it doesn't end there: Gyarados heaves its body back into the air and its mouth's aglow, fanged and wide, and in a final desperate growl a beam of scorching yellow light erupts from it and and crashes into Abbie. The woman's thrown from her feet and sent flying; her head slams against the door with a dull _thud_. The gun goes clattering somewhere. Gyarados stands upright for a moment still _—_ then crashes down as well. The impact rattles the ground under Misty's feet.

"Gyarados!"

She pulls her arm from Brock's grasp and runs to it, her breath stuck at the bottom of her chest. Her pokémon is lying sprawled across the floor, its mouth agape still, the light scales of its belly glimmering white. Its side heaves under her palms when she touches it and there's blood, sticky and warm, trickling down like a thick gelatin. "Gyarados," she says again and there's no answer, only the cavernous, jittery sound of its breath.

Footsteps. Brock's hand closes around her shoulder, squeezes. "Come on, call it back in its pokéball," he urges her. "We need to go. We need to get out of here. We'll get it to a pokémon center, there's got to be one around here."

Misty presses her lips together, swallows; nods. Her throat's caught on a lump. "Return," she squeezes out, touching the release button of Gyarados' pokéball again, and her voice is all wrong, shaky like it hitched somewhere along the way. The pokémon disappears in another red flash. Beyond it Abbie is still lying against the door, wilted like a puppet with its strings cut.

Brock slams his hand on the panel on the wall again until he finally manages to open the door. Night air slips in, cold and sharp, sour smelling. She tucks the pokéball in her pocket and turns: Ash is still standing where she left him, hands curled into shaky fists at his sides. But when she closes hers around his arm and tries to pull him with her he doesn't move.

(His muscles stiffen under her touch instead like days ago, like when she had only just let him into her living room, like— )

She turns again, blinking. "Come on. We're leaving."

"I can't come with you," he says. He's still not looking at her. Misty shakes her head.

"Don't be stupid."

"They're looking for me. You're in danger as long as I'm with you. Don't you see it yet?"

His words shake as well. She's got no time for patience right now, though, not while for all she knows Gyarados might be dying, so she digs her fingers into his arm and jerks it harder. "Well you're twice as stupid if you think I'll let you go anywhere alone after all this," she snaps. "And if I have to hit you on the head and drag your unconscious body all the way to the pokémon center I will, so quit that and come with me _now!_ "

"Ash, come on," Brock intervenes. "We'll come up with another plan. But right now we need to get out of here and get Gyarados help. Fast."

He reluctantly lets her pull him outside after Pikachu also tugs and pushes at his legs. The sky above their heads is an inky black, flat and dull. It's cold. Misty's breath fogs into clouds of thin smoke. She keeps her hand around Ash's wrist as their steps echo between the silent buildings and her heart beats louder, louder, louder.

***

They find the red sign of a pokémon center after what feels like hours of aimless wandering, although it's probably not. Brock taps her shoulder and points at it: "That way," he says, and she finally lets go of Ash's arm and breaks into a run. Her feet splash into a puddle along the sidewalk. The lights of the pokémon center turn it into a mirror, red and blue-white. _Don't be too late_ she thinks, slamming her palms against the glass door to open it. _Please don't be too late._

Inside she blinks in the sudden light and after a moment of disorientation runs for the counter. The nurse Joy sitting behind it gives her a kind and somewhat puzzled look: "Can I help—?"

"Yes," Misty cuts her off. She fishes the pokéball out of her pocket and lays it in front of her. Behind her the door opens and closes again. "My pokémon. My Gyarados. Someone hurt it. She—"

Her voice's still not coming out right, too urgent and shaky, the syllables piling on one another. "Alright," the nurse tries to calm her. "We'll take care of your Gyarados, don't worry. Can you tell me what happened?"

Misty forces herself to take a breath. "Someone shot it."

Nurse Joy's face scrunches into a frown. "...Alright," she says again after a second. She nods her head towards the two Chansey at her left, who rush her pokéball towards the other room. "We'll take care of it. That sounds like something you should also file a police report for though. I can contact officer Jenny for you."

"There's no need for that," Brock's voice comes to her aid. His hand closes on her shoulder again. "We—don't want to press charges or anything. It was an accident."

The ripples creasing the nurse's forehead deepen slightly as her eyes run to him, and Misty wonders if she can tell he's lying. Wonders suddenly, like a cold dagger sinking into her stomach, if she might be one of Giovanni's countless spies as well. But the woman nods after a moment and steps away from the counter. "Alright then. We'll do everything we can," she promises her, before hurrying after the Chansey. The soft patter of her shoes follows after her; then the door closes with a hissing noise and there's silence.

Misty swallows, trying to force down the lump in her throat. Her eyes sting. Brock gives her shoulder another squeeze. "Gyarados will be fine. I'm sure," he says. Instead of answering she bites her lip and turns around.

Ash is standing by the door, his eyes glued to the empty street outside. In the bright neon light she can see that there's a bruise on his face, spread purple across his jaw, and she shudders as the scene from before rushes back to her mind. She takes a half-step towards him, stops. Swallows again. Brock lingers on his feet for a moment, then leans over the counter and grabs the keys to one of the rooms from the rack on the wall.

"I think it's best if—we get somewhere a little less in sight," he says. Misty shakes her head.

"I have to stay here. I need to wait for Gyarados. You—"

_keep him safe_ she wants to say, but she doesn't, because she's not sure if he can hear her from across the room. Brock looks at her and nods after a second, as though he understood anyway. "Be careful though," he tells her, the lines of his face tense and sharp.

She watches him walk up to Ash and, after quite a lot of convincing, manage to get him to follow him towards the hallway. Alone, finally, she stands by the counter for a bit still, not knowing what to do with herself. Her hand runs to the spot under her ribs where Ash's elbow slammed when she held him back: it hurts a little. The sliding door to the emergency room is still closed. The red light on top of it has flashed on.

In the end she walks to one of the couches and sits down. She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her hands tight around her ankles, waiting.

***

Blood rolls down the drain in ugly rusty stripes. It almost has a deja-vu quality—he's had to scrape caked blood off his hands more times than he cares to count. What's different this once is that Brock is leaning against the doorframe, pretending that he's not eyeing him, and Pikachu is staring up at him from the floor and his glance is like a prickle on the back of his neck.

He still hasn't fount the courage to look either of them in the eye. Nor Misty.

He turns the water off and lingers in front of the sink for as long as he can before the seconds start to feel like sand piling into heaps, then turns. Brock is still there. "Are you okay?" he asks him. Ash shrugs and says nothing. Brock looks at him for a couple moments—he can feel his glance even without taking his off the floor—then takes a breath and lets it out slowly.

"...I'll be back in a minute. Wait there," he says.

He disappears before Ash can retort. Not that he'd have anything to say anyway. He kicks the floor a bit, then walks out of the bathroom and back into the room. There he stands idly in the middle of the floor for a handful of seconds, still carefully avoiding meeting Pikachu's eyes. He walks up to one of the beds then and lets himself fall sitting on the mattress; curls up in a ball around his knees. Pulls them closer when Pikachu tries to squeeze in on his lap.

Stupid, he thinks, digging his fingers into the fabric of his pants. How could he think—how could he let himself—

Brock is back after a couple minutes. He hands him an ice pack: "Here," he says. "For your face," he adds when Ash just stares at it. "You've got a bruise the size of a softball there."

"Thanks," he sighs. Pressing the ice to his face sends silvery needles sparkling along his jawbone. Brock watches him.

"Are you okay?" he asks again. "Aside from that?"

Ash shrugs one more time. He looks at the floor, his eyes fixed on the spot where the wooden boards meet in a T shape. "I can't—I can't stay here, Brock."

"You can. And you're going to," Brock retorts. "We won't be staying for long. Only until Gyarados recovers, then we'll figure out something else. But we can't let you go alone, Ash. We're still going to help you."

He shakes his head. "What if—Gyarados doesn't make it?" he wants to know. He takes the ice pack off his face, wringing it in frustration. "What if they find me and this time instead of Gyarados it's you, or Misty, or Pikachu?"

"And what if we let you go and it's you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does." Brock walks to the bed and sits down, and Ash crumples tighter around his knees even if he didn't try to come closer or touch him. "We're still your friends, Ash. And we knew we were getting into something dangerous from the start. What happened tonight changes nothing. If anything it gave us a small taste of what I imagine you had to live through for the past year, but that's one more reason not to leave you alone. We'll figure out something else. We just need to think about it."

"There isn't anything else you can do." He shakes his head again, still staring at the floor. "This was the only plan we had and all it's done it put you guys in danger."

Brock seems to find nothing to remark this time. He can feel his eyes still, and instinctively hides his hands, as if he could still somehow see the blood on them. Brock lets out a sigh.

"We'll figure it out," he insists. "There has to be some other way."

Ash presses his lips into a thin line and doesn't retort. "You should go back with Misty," he says instead. "She shouldn't be alone. Giovanni—he knows you've been helping me all along."

He doesn't add anything else, doesn't tell him what Giovanni's men could do to her, to them, for merely being close to him; but he doesn't need to. There's a silence, lingering and thoughtful, then another small sigh.

"You're not going to do anything stupid if I leave you here, right?" Brock asks. "By which I mean you're not going to try and run off or something like that."

"I'm not."

"Are you going to be okay?"

He gives another slight shrug. "I'm fine. And I can defend myself if I need to."

"Yeah, I—saw that." There's a flicker of hesitation in Brock's voice, and although it's not quite the disgust he was expecting it still makes him want to disappear. The tendons in his hands twitch, quivering. "Fine. Keep an eye on him, Pikachu, alright?"

"Pika," the pokémon nods. Brock lets another moment pass; then stands. Ash listens to him walk away, still not looking up. On the door he pauses again: "I mean it. Don't do anything stupid."

He shakes his head. Silence; then the door slides closed with a slight creak.

He hides his face against his knees. Stupid, he thinks again. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

***

_(You belong here now.)_

***

Misty looks up when she hears the footsteps. She sniffles a bit, wiping the back of one hand over her eyes. She hasn't been crying, not really, but they feel hot and watery all the same. The light above the door is still on.

"Anything new?" Brock asks. She shakes her head.

"Uh-uh." The couch cushion sinks a little as Brock sits next to her and she sniffles again. "How's Ash?"

"I'm not sure," he sighs. He purses his lips, thinking about it for a second. "I think he feels responsible for all this. He told me I should stay with you, in case—you know. He's afraid something's gonna happen to us."

"Think he should be alone?"

"He's only a couple rooms from here. And there's Pikachu with him."

Misty leans her chin against her hands. "What are we going to do, Brock?"

He doesn't have an answer, it seems. "I don't know," he finally admits after a long moment. "We need to figure out something else. There has to be something we can do."

"Like what?"

Hopelessness feels like a pit growing in her middle. The edges keep crumbling, brittle like clay, and the rubble rolls down the walls and disappears into the black without a sound, never hitting the bottom. She thinks of what Ash told her in the woods, about the guy who tried to betray the team; about what happened to him. To his family. "I don't know," Brock sighs again. "Maybe there's something we haven't thought of yet. Jessie left me a number I could call her at in case we needed something. Maybe we could talk with them again and see if they can give us anything else."

"We can't let that piece of shit get to him."

"We won't. We'll find something."

She doesn't retort. Her eyes fall back on the door across from them, still closed. She folds. She imagines machines beeping on the other side and her teeth sink into her lip, hard enough to hurt. "It's not Ash's fault this happened. It's mine."

"Don't say that."

"But it's true." She knots her hands around her ankles again, her fingers pressing white marks into her skin. "Ash kept warning me that these people are capable of anything. And I believed him, I did, but I thought I could still—I thought—if all else failed I could still defend him myself. And now maybe Gyarados is going to die."

Her voice cracks. Brock is silent for a second; then leans over and strokes her arm a bit as if trying to warm her up. "Gyarados is tough," he says. "Just like its trainer. It'll be okay."

"You don't know that."

She stiffens, remembering similar words from over a year ago: _they'll find him, he'll be fine._ He gets it, maybe, because his hand stops and again for a moment he finds nothing to say. "Let's wait," he just tells her in the end. "Okay?"

They wait. The nigh stretches on and on in a familiar, sickening sort of vigil, and her eyes start feeling full of sand after a few turns of the clock. She forces them open anyway. Brock gets them coffees from the vending machine in the corner and she holds hers in her hands until it goes cold, watching as the steam rises into the air. Outside the sky goes from black to gray to a foggy pink. A light turns on somewhere down the street; then another and another. Somewhere a car starts.

It's past five a.m. when the light above the door to the emergency room turns off. In the pause that follows Misty holds her breath, her stomach crumpled to a hard knot.

The door slides open.

***

The room has gone from dark to the hazy gray of almost-dawn when there's footsteps in the hallway again. Ash draws in a sharp breath and hugs his knees closer. It takes him a couple seconds to unglue his eyes from the window he's spent a good deal of the night staring at, his muscles tense to the point of shaking, all of his five senses ready and alert.

(The same thought nagging insistently at the back of his mind: open it, jump over the sill and run, do it do it DO IT. But Pikachu's eyes never left him for a moment, and although he kept avoiding them he's sure he'd guessed what he was thinking about.)

The footsteps stop by the door. There's silence for a brief moment; then the creak of the door opening again. He glances at it, still barely lifting his eyes from the floor: Misty's shoes stand in the narrow slice of hallway he can see through the crack. She lingers there for a second and then walks in, pushing the door closed behind her back. The lock gives a soft click.

She takes a breath and lets it out in a tired-sounding sigh. "Hey," she says. "You're all in one piece, right?"

He doesn't answer. He thinks of the horrible gasping sound he heard when his elbow crashed into her and her scream when Abbie fired at Gyarados and all he can muster is a shrug, his fingers sunk into the fabric of his pants still. She sighs again and walks closer, stopping by the bed.

"I'm not mad," she tells him. Ash bites the inside of his cheek. Right where it already feels swollen and raw, where it already hurts.

"You should be."

She sits. The mattress wobbles; out of the corner of his eyes he sees her lace her fingers around her knees. "Nurse Joy said Gyarados is going to be okay. She said Gyarados have a very thick skin. The bullets managed to cut through it anyway, but they were slowed down enough that they didn't do much damage." She pauses there, like she's trying to collect her thoughts. "She's going to monitor it for the next twenty-four hours just to make sure everything is fine. Then it should be ready to leave."

He still says nothing. Misty looks at him, then moves closer and tries to lay a hand on his face to turn it towards her. "Let me see that."

He flinches away from her touch. Her fingers linger in the air for a moment and in that pause he can feel the ripple of her hurt, even without looking at her. Stupid, he thinks again. So stupid to let her in, to think that maybe he could have a glimmer of her and Brock's and Pikachu's normalcy for himself again.

She lowers the hand in her lap. "Are you okay?"

"I hit you."

That's hardly even scratching the surface of everything he's done to her in the past few hours. Misty shrugs a little. "I'm fine," she assures him. "You didn't hurt me that bad. I'll live."

Ash presses his lips together and again doesn't reply. He hears another small sigh.

"Can you look at me?"

He does—for a moment, barely, enough to see the worried crease of her mouth, still not enough to see her eyes. He lowers his on the blanket immediately after and pulls his knees closer still. Misty breathes in slowly.

"It's not your fault any of this happened, Ash," she says. "You even warned me to call Gyarados back and I didn't listen, so—well, that's... probably on me more than it's on you." Her voice falters slightly. She picks it up again after a beat, though, and goes on. "And Gyarados will be fine. I'm fine. Brock and Pikachu are fine, and you're fine, unless you're hiding some fatal wound somewhere, so... nothing irreparable happened. Yeah, we're kinda back to square one with our plan, but we'll find something else."

"We won't."

"Maybe we just—need to think harder. Brock's right, there's got to be something. We're not going to give up."

"You should." He spits it out almost, sharp. "You should just go back home and let me leave. I can't stay with you."

"Now you're being stupid all over again."

"You've already gotten yourselves in danger once and it was all for nothing. And it's just gonna happen again, until he gets what he wants. It's all pointless, you—you can't fight him. No one can."

She's not as quick to retort this time, and Ash's nails claw at the skin of his arm. Pull. The words tumble out of him like scattered pebbles: "I can't—I can't get away from him. I never have. Even when I thought I did, even when—I thought I managed to run away. He just— _let me_."

He sinks his nails into his arm harder, leaving red angry marks. Misty leans closer and takes his hand away. "You got away," she tells him. "He's not here right now."

He does turn to look at her finally, forgetting that he was avoiding her eyes until it's too late. "Even the people we were supposed to trust were actually on his side," he snaps. "Maybe he's watching us even right now, what do you know, maybe he owns this whole place and he's got hidden cameras somewhere or—or that nurse Joy is one of his agents. He's never stopped controlling me. I can't get away."

She looks back at him. There's no disgust on her face, not in her eyes nor in the curve of her mouth or in the frown furrowing her brow a little, not even when he keeps staring at them—at every smallest worried crease—and tries to will it into existence, wondering how it's possible, how she can still look at him in the same way after what she saw him do. There is exhaustion, though: her eyes are bloodshot like she's cried or tried not to and the hollows under them have turned from shadows to purple brush strokes. She shakes her head a little and pushes a strand of hair away from her forehead.

"But he's not here," she insists. "You ran away. He's not controlling you. He had a whole year to try and brainwash you and he failed. You still managed to break free and reach for help."

"Yeah, and all it's done is nearly get you guys killed." He turns away again. On the floor the sun's starting to draw pale rectangles through the window blinds. He knew this would happen all along, didn't he? He knew it before he knocked on Misty's door and he did it anyway. "He was right. I'm no different than him."

Misty stares at him, then grabs the pillow from the bed and tosses it half-heartedly in his direction. It smacks against his side and flops back on the mattress, missing Pikachu by an inch. "Stop," she says. Her voice shakes slightly at the foundations, like she's angry or hurting or both. "Stop saying that. I don't want to hear it again. You're not like him. You're at far as it gets from that piece of shit."

Ash clenches his jaw. "How can you still say that? You saw—you saw what—"

"What? What did I see?"

"What I did to that guy. What I can do."

He has to squeeze it out almost. There's silence for a moment, the same hesitating pause he heard in Brock's voice earlier, and his stomach twists and crumples into a fist. "I saw you beat the crap out of someone who wanted to hurt us and bring you back to the psycho who tortured you for a year. I'd have been pissed too," she sighs then. Her hands tighten a little around her knees. "I am. But not at you, Ash."

He says nothing. Misty picks her gaze from the floor where it'd wandered and turns to look at him again: "But I _will_ get pissed if I hear you say that again. So stop. You're nothing like him."

He wishes he could believe her. He does; more desperately now than ever. But his mind is all a tangle of shame and guilt, wound tight, and her words bounce back against it this time without cutting through. He swallows and gathers his knees to his chest again. His hands are bruised at the knuckles, his skin split open across two of them on the right one.

"He's my father," he whispers. The word's all sharp edges and thorns in his mouth. He never called him that; he was always just Giovanni in his head or _sir_ when he answered his orders, the only minuscule act of rebellion he could afford. He's not even sure he minded. Misty shakes her head.

"So what? It doesn't mean anything. You're not him."

He sure did a fine job evening out their differences as much as he could, though. Again Ash's eyes run to the window: again he imagines opening it, swinging his legs to the other side, running off into the still-silent city. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe he can still do one right thing, fix the some of the wrong he's done to them. Maybe there's still a chance to prove that he's not like him after all.

Misty looks at him, seemingly expecting a reply. After a handful of moments she sighs. She picks up the pillow she threw at him and smooths it on her lap. "What happened tonight doesn't change anything, Ash," she says.

But it did.

***

"So what do we do now?"

She asks it to Brock almost like pleading, almost like she actually expects him to have an answer. Her eyes feel heavy. He takes his off the slits in the blind and the street and purses his lips. He sighs: "I don't know. I have the number Jessie gave me. I can call her, maybe they know something else that could help us."

"We can't trust anyone else," Ash says. He didn't even look at the food Brock got them from the pokémon center's cafeteria. The bruise on his face is a deep purple shadow even with the blinds shut and the lights turned off, spread like an inksmear from his jaw to the edge of his cheekbone.

Brock turns back to the window and leans his forehead against it, thinking. He looks even more tired than she feels, which is saying something. "Mrs. R really did mean to help us, it seems."

"Doesn't matter. She still put us in the hands of someone we couldn't trust."

"Also I don't know if she'd still want to help us now," she sighs. She remembers the sound Abbie's head made smacking against the door, that dull hollow clunk: she had it coming, for sure, but she shudders all the same thinking about it. Brock purses his lips again.

"Maybe she's still worth a shot, though. She _was_ sincere. And what happened wasn't—it wasn't out fault, we did what we had to."

"It doesn't _matter_ ," Ash insists. He clenches his fists, staring at the floor. "We can't trust any more people. If it goes like this again next time we're not gonna be as lucky."

He pulls his knees closer and leans his chin on top of them. His cheek works like he's chewing at it. Misty shakes her head a little, looking at him.

"Then what do you suggest? If you've got some other idea now's a good time as any to mention it." She sees him part his lips and stops him: "And if you say we should let you _hide or something_ I will—" she looks around—seizes the crumpled wrap of one of the sandwiches she and Brock ate from one corner of the bed. "—throw _this_ in your face. And I won't miss."

It's desperation talking more than anger. She guessed right though, it seems, because he doesn't say anything. She sighs one more time.

"We need someone's help. There isn't—there isn't much the three of us can do alone."

"It doesn't have to be the three of us."

"Don't start again."

Brock lets go of the slats in the blind and looks back at them. "We need to find a safer place first of all. We can't stay here. As soon as Gyarados is released tomorrow morning we're leaving."

"To go where?"

The pit of hopelessness in her gut gapes open again when his glance drops to the floor. "Maybe we could—I don't know. Get somewhere very far from here. As far as possible."

"It's no use. He'd find me anyway," Ash grumbles. His breath hitches slightly. "I'm a thing he wants. He doesn't let anything step in his way. For as long as he's alive and free there's no place in the world where I'll be safe from him. And you guys either, if you keep helping me."

Brock raises a hand to his head and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, like to try and contain a headache, and for a long, long moment keeps them like that. "We'll find something," he insists then. "We'll talk to the trio again. There's got to be _something_."

She tries to believe him. She looks at the bruise on Ash's face, at the scars on his arms; thinks of the ones she can't see, the horrible ones on his back. She tries desperately to believe him.

***

_please forgive me for the sorrow, for leaving you in fear_

_for the dreams we had to silence_

_that's all they'll ever be_

_(You don't belong out there anymore,_ Giovanni told him once. He remembers the way his lips curled into a grin as he did, and he shivers now remembering it. Remembering the amused glint in his eyes. _You wouldn't fit, not like you are now. And they don't need you anyway. They've all gotten over your death by now. Your mother, your friends, all of them. They've gone on with their lives and forgotten about you. There's no place for you anymore._

He leaned back into his armchair, his bejeweled fingers stroking the fur on Persian's head: _you belong here now. We're family after all.)_

***

Brock catches some sleep in the few hours before sunset. "So I can stay up tonight," he says. He runs a hand through the scruffed hair at the back of his head and lets out a sigh, and Ash remembers that he's likely spent two sleepless nights in a row already and feels a weight in his chest. "Someone should probably stay on watch. Just to be safe."

"I can do it," Misty offers. But he shakes his head and stretches his lips into a smile.

"You had a rough night last night already. Sleep. I'll be fine, I just need to crash for a little bit."

Come the night he's up again and he gathers his pokéballs in his backpack and throws it over one shoulder. "I'll be right outside," he says. "I saw there's a sitting area almost right across from this room, I should be able to keep an eye on the whole hallway pretty easily from there. I'll pretend to be reading or something. I'll wake you guys up the moment I see or hear anything strange."

After he's gone Ash lies awake in the dark, his arms wrapped around his knees, and listens to the rustling of blankets as Misty keeps tossing and turning in the bunk bed above his. It's a while before she falls asleep, and when she finally does her breath grows shallow and too fast again after not long. _I have nightmares too sometimes_ , he remembers her saying. He waits, staring at the wall. Her breath quiets down after a bit: she doesn't wake up.

Pikachu takes longer to fall asleep. For the better part of the night he sits on his pillow, watching him still. Eventually weariness gets the best of him too, though, and his eyes slowly slide closed, his breath turning into the soft purring noise it makes sometimes when he's sleeping soundly. Ash waits for a while still, his throat so tight he can hardly breathe himself.

In the end he pushes the blanket aside and slips out of bed as quietly as he can. The floorboards give a slight creak under his foot and he freezes, listening: silence. Slower still, he picks up his shoes by the laces and takes a couple steps. Then a couple more. Halfway through the room he stops and turns around, his throat squeezed shut, his heart a crumpled weight in his chest. For a moment he just stands there.

Pikachu is curled up in a ball under a corner of his blanket. In the other bed Misty's sleeping with her face twisted in a frown, her hand grasping the sheet. Moonlight glints softly on the pillow and on her hair, spread in an orange mess around her head.

_I'm sorry,_ he thinks. He wishes he could tell her. Tell them.

He swallows and turns around. He reaches the window and fumbles with the latch a little. It clicks; behind him Misty stirs in her sleep. Ash holds his breath. But she turns to the other side with a snuffing sound and still doesn't wake up, and the window swings free a bit, cold air seeping in.

Ash digs his nails into his palm. There isn't really an alternative, is there?

He opens the window and slips his shoes on. Feeling his heart heavy, heavy, heavy, he throws his legs over the sill and lets himself down on the other side.

The cold bites the skin of his arms. He balls up his fists.

He runs.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: ...do I even say something about being late? I'm exceptionally sorry. Real life has been kind of really ugly lately, and it's been super hard to find any inspiration. So sorry for the wait, and thank you for being patient if you're still here.  
> The lyrics quoted at the end of the chapter are from "The Wolf" by Phildel. Which is probably partially responsible for the plot of this story, as I was listening to it back as I laid it out.  
> Oh, and in case you don't remember, the events briefly mentioned in regards to the Viridian City gym happened in the anime in EP063 - The Battle of the Badge.

The first time she had the nightmare was the night after they told them the body was his, when she finally fell asleep after lying awake for hours, her body emptied of tears and of anything else too. The same nightmare she'd have over and over again: Ash lying in his sleeping bag, his face turned away from her. Asleep, or so she thought. But his skin cold and wet to the touch when she grabbed his arm to shake him awake, and when she turned him—when she turned him—

She woke up with a scream and as she made out the room around her for a moment she felt relief, because it was only a nightmare and it was over and gone, and then she _remembered_ and the world shattered all over again.

***

"...kachu-pi! Pikachu-pi! Pikachu-pi!"

Pikachu's panicked voice tearing through her sleep sets off an alarm at the back of her mind before she's even fully conscious, like a jolt of electricity down her spine. Less than a moment later her eyes have flown open and her heart is in her throat, her hand scrambling to untangle itself from the mess of her sheets and prop her up: "What? What's happening?!"

_(What happened? Where's Ash?)_

Pikachu doesn't answer—just nods urgently for her to follow and jumps down the ladder. Down: towards Ash's bunk, and her stomach crumples so tight at once that her breath's cut in two. _Now_ and _then_ confusedly overlapped in her still-not-entirely-awake mind, she grabs the edge of her mattress and looks down.

Ash's bed is empty. The blanket is pushed to the side and the sheets and the pillow still look like someone's slept on them, still holding onto the vague shape of a body, and his backpack is there but he's not. Misty's eyes dart across the room. The bathroom door's ajar like she left it last evening, the light off on the other side. There's a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision and she turns, startled, but it's only the window, swinging open in a gust of wind. It smacks against the wall with a sudden thud.

She tosses her own blanket aside and jumps out of bed. Shoving her hair away from her face, she runs to it and leans outside, half-stumbling on her own steps as she does. There's no one there either, only the street stretching out silent in both directions, still immersed in the pale sheen of dawn and asleep. The sill is cold against her palms. She tightens her fingers around it for a second; then turns back around.

"Did you hear something, Pikachu? Did you see where he went?"

The pokémon shakes his head. Misty swallows and helplessly runs her eyes over the empty room one more time, trying to force herself to _think_ , to steer her mind away from—

_(the sleeping bag the empty sleeping bag and the rain drowning out his name)_

She rushes to the door and flings it open, her mouth full of sand. Across the hallway Brock lifts his glance from the book he's holding.

"Have you seen Ash?" she cuts him off before he gets the chance to ask. He frowns.

"He's not there?"

"He's not." Her heart is still in her throat. "I woke up and his bed is empty. Brock—"

Brock drops the book and stands. Seconds later he's hurried past her and into the room, scanning it up and down just like she did. He stops at the window. "I found it like that," she adds, but he's walking up to it already and bending to look closely at the latch, his face pale and drawn tight at the temples. Misty tucks her hair behind her ear again and shakes her head.

"Do you think—maybe someone could have broken in while we slept and—?"

_He sent people trained just for that,_ she remembers him saying; _they're good at their job._ But Brock presses his lips together and keeps examining the window. "It doesn't—look like it was broken into," he says, grim. Like it hurts to admit it, like there's a weight on his chest. "The latch was just pulled. It doesn't look like there's a way to do that from outside. If someone wanted to they'd have to force it, break something." He moves the window on its hinges, pushing it closed. "Nothing's broken. And I didn't see anyone walk in or out of the door all night, so…"

"So—what, he ran off? Is that what you're saying?"

Brock closes his hands around the sill and his shoulders heave as he breathes in. He turns. "Yeah. I think that's what he did."

She closes her eyes. A tremble stirs somewhere deep in her middle, spreads to her hands like an itch. She balls them into shaky fists. "I'm going to strangle him."

"It's been a few hours at most, he can't have gone too far. We'll find him."

"You said the same thing a year ago!"

Her words hit the floor hard and lie for a long moment between the two of them. In the heavy silence she forces herself to take a breath. Her nails have dug burning marks into her palms.

"Sorry. I didn't—"

"...No, you're right," he sighs. "You're right. No use wasting time with with words anyway. Get dressed, we'll take a look around."

She does as he said, all the while feeling not quite there, not quite awake still despite the present, tangible feeling of the floor under her feet, the fabric against her hands. As she tugs a clean t-shirt over her head her eyes fall again on the empty bed, on the creases in the sheets and the dip on the pillow and the backpack still there, and her fingers stiffen and her breath pauses in her chest. He was there just hours ago, maybe less. He was there and she let him—let him—

"Ready?" Brock's voice shakes her. She jumps a little and nods, pulling down the hem of her shirt.

"Yes."

Brock nods back and steps towards the door after Pikachu. "Good. Let's go then."

***

They look. They circle the pokémon center and then the block and at the end of the street she cups her hands around her mouth and calls, adding a "where the hell are you?!" for good measure, her stomach a knot, her pulse a drumbeat in her temples. A couple houses down a woman locking her door turns to give them a puzzled glance, but aside from that everything is still quiet and the echo of her voice fades away unanswered. Brock gently closes one hand around her elbow: "Better not risk drawing too much attention. I don't think calling's any help anyway."

So they go on looking, but it's pointless and he's got to know it as well. He could be anywhere, and after a handful of minutes she stops again and bends over, bracing her hands against her knees as if to catch her breath after a run. He could be anywhere. The sun shines a blinding white on the asphalt below, wobbling in front of her eyes.

"We're not going to find him."

"We can keep lookin—"

"You _know_ we're not going to find him!" She tightens her fingers and rights herself. "He could be on the other side of town by now, or—hiding who even knows where! He doesn't _want_ us to find him."

He doesn't retort, but the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows is enough of an answer. Anger and frustration hit her at once like a wave of nausea, like a fist, and it rattles her all over but she clings to it all the same because anger's easy, anger's better than admitting to the blistering panic beneath. Her breath hitches and erupts in an almost-gasp: "That— _idiot!_ How could he do something so _stupid?!_ "

"He's scared," Brock sighs. She presses her fists to her temples.

"I should have heard something. I should—how could I not—I was _right there_. I should have stopped him."

Saying it out loud feels like something being ripped out of her chest. She didn't. She _didn't:_ not now, not a year ago. "...It's not your fault," Brock tries to tell her, but his voice sounds far away and her legs stagger, hollow. She thinks of the empty sleeping bag. She thinks of the rain hitting the window of the pokémon center, of Delia's face across the room turning sheet-pale as she listened on the phone, and she sits down on the edge of the sidewalk and crumples around that sudden gaping emptiness. Pikachu nudges her leg once, twice; calls her name trying to get her to stand. She doesn't turn.

_I'll take care of him, Mrs. Ketchum,_ she said. _I won't let anything happen to him this time._

_I promise._

Brock lets out another sigh. He kicks a pebble under his foot; then walks up to her and sits by her side. A moment goes by.

"It's not your fault," he tells her again. "Ash is old enough not to need a babysitter. And you know better than me how stubborn he is. There's... no stopping him once he gets something in his head, no matter how stupid it is."

She stares at the asphalt still. Her chin quivers. "What do we do, Brock?"

He doesn't know, at least not right away, and something like a furious dry sob tears its way out of her throat. She sinks her teeth into her lip before any more can follow, but they shake her all the same, like waves hitting the shore hard in a storm, and she folds tighter around her knees and tries to push back against them. Idiot, she thinks, idiot, idiot, _idiot._ Next to her Brock draws a small breath as if to say something but stops there, not finding it. She shakes her head:

"We need to find him before they do," comes out of her somehow, and it's not her voice—her voice is brash and loud and not whispered, this is not it, this strangled squeezed out hiccup. If he says again _we will_ or some other useless empty promise she'll start screaming or sobbing for real, she's sure, but this time he doesn't. This time he guesses her thoughts and lets another few seconds pass.

"Giovanni wants him alive," he says finally instead. "We know that much. I—I hope we find him first, I hope it won't come to that, but even if—they do, even if they find him before we can, we won't stop looking. We know everything now, we know he's alive. We're not gonna leave him in that psycho's hands for another year, okay? Not even for a month or a week. We'll take him back."

_But they'll hurt him again in the meantime_ she wants to yell, but she doesn't because the dam's barely holding already and so she just nods, her lips clamped shut. Brock's hand finds her shoulder; squeezes once, stays.

"Now take a deep breath. Just try."

It takes her a second to understand what he means—she hadn't realized that in her desperation to keep the sobs in for the last who-knows-how-many seconds she hasn't really been breathing either. She lets her muscles ease up a bit and it feels sort of like the moment after the surface of her pool breaks into pieces, the first mouthful of air too urgent a gasp to be a breath at all, her lungs burning and too tight and too hungry for air. He strokes her shoulder a little.

"That's better. See? Deep breaths. Good."

After a minute or two she's calmed down enough that she's at least not shaking anymore, and he tells her, "Let's go back to the pokémon center. You're right, we're not going to find him just wandering around like this. I'll call Jessie, they might be able to help us somehow, maybe—who knows, they might know some hiding place Ash could know as well, or something like that. It may be a long shot, but at least it's a start. Okay?"

She takes one more deep breath. "I'm still going to strangle him when we find him."

"I know." He gives her shoulder a pat. "Come on, let's go."

***

Brock calls Jessie from his pokégear. She listens to his urgent, hushed voice for a bit, biting down on the inside of her cheek; then turns. Nurse Joy is sitting behind the counter, busy reading through a pile of medical records. Misty clenches her fists a bit and heads in that direction. The woman looks up hearing her footsteps and her lips curve into a smile, but her eyes hold a stern note despite the kindness in them.

"Your Gyarados is ready to leave," she says. She places her pokéball on the counter, but doesn't take her hand off it just yet. "Whatever happened exactly, though, be sure to be more careful in the future. Your pokémon are not weapons, and they shouldn't be used as weapons either."

"I know," she nearly stops her. She sees the woman's lips tighten slightly and breathes in, trying again. "I mean—I will. It won't happen again."

"Hm. Are you sure you don't want to file a police report?"

"I'm sure."

Nurse Joy watches her for a moment still, then takes her hand away. Her breath catching in her throat a little, Misty gathers the pokéball up and cups her ten fingers around it, and for a long moment holds it to her lips, feeling tears sting behind her eyelids: "I'm sorry," she whispers to it, the thunder of Abbie's gun still vivid in her mind. "I'm so sorry."

When she slips the pokéball in her pocket and turns around Brock is done with his phonecall. "They're gonna reach us here," he tells her as she walks back, and for a second the corners of his mouth fold into the brief semblance of a smile. "She didn't exactly say it, but I think they stayed close in case we needed their help again."

"Do you really think they can?" She shakes her head a bit. "Help?"

"I hope."

She sits down on the couch and wraps her arms around herself, fingers restlessly tugging at the fabric of her shirt. Pikachu's eyes stare miserably up at her from the floor. After a few moments he climbs next to her on the cushions and huddles against her side with a faint sound.

_I promise,_ she said. _I promise._

***

Half an hour later the Meowth-shaped balloon is hovering above the pokémon center, and after another handful of minutes they're all crammed back into their room, the trio standing kind of awkwardly in the middle of the floor and shuffling their feet. They're wearing normal clothes, Jessie and James are—not Team Rocket uniforms, not weird costumes, just clothes, and she tries to remember if she's ever seen them both look like normal people before but then the corner of her eye hitches again on the empty bed, on the blankets still thrown to the side, and her stomach twists and the thread of that thought slips silently through her fingers.

Brock closes the window they left open and explains again the whole situation, starting from what happened at Mrs. R's safehouse. Misty sits on Ash's bed, kicking her heel impatiently against the frame, and when he gets to Abbie and the way Gyarados' hyper beam threw her across the room she shudders and kicks hard enough that a jolt of pain shoots through the back of her foot. Her nails dig into the sheet. Brock gets to the end of the story and his voice trails off into silence.

"...Dang, that sure wasn't a smart move," says James after a beat, rubbing the nape of his neck. "You sure he took off?"

"Yeah, pretty sure," Brock sighs. "There's no sign that the window might have been broken into. And Ash's backpack's here but his shoes aren't."

Jessie crosses her arms. "Well, has he lost it or what? We go through all that trouble to try and keep him protected and the first thing he does as soon as everyone looks away is run off in the middle of the night?"—she catches the glares that both Misty and Pikachu are throwing in her direction and backtracks a little, waving her palms into the air. "Fine, fine, if you don't want to hear that your friend went completely bonkers I won't say it, but just so you know I think your friend went completely bonkers."

"It doesn't matter how stupid what he did is right now," Brock steps in. "What matters is that we need to find him. Fast. Possibly before Giovanni does. And we need your help."

Jessie and James look at each other and then down at Meowth. "...Er, sure, just—how exactly?"

He sighs one more time and his hand runs to his temples. "I don't know. We were hoping maybe—you could at least give us something to start from. We can't just... wander around the city hoping that we'll stumble into him sooner or later, it's no use. Maybe there's some... hiding spot that you think Ash might know about, or something like that? Think."

Another exchange of glances. James smushes his lips together and runs his fingers through the hair on the back of his head again: "Yeah, um. There isn't really some... _'list of good hiding spots to use in case the boss is really pissed at you someday'_ that you learn about the moment you join the team, y'know? And even if there was I doubt your friend would've had the chance to hear about it." His shoulders drop a little. "Sorry, kids. I'm afraid there ain't a lot we can do to help this time."

"There is."

Everyone's eyes turn to her. "Well speak then," says Jessie with a slight shrug. Misty takes a breath.

"I want to talk to Mrs. R again."

Jessie and James both look at her and then again at each other. "...Huh, kid," says James, "After all _that_ I'm not sure she'll—"

"I want to talk to her again," she insists. She pulls harder at the bedsheet, clenching her fists around it. "And she's gonna have to help us. This—all happened because she put us in the hands of someone who would have sold Ash back to your piece of shit boss."

"Yeeeah, about that, he's not _really_ our boss anymore," he tries to argue, gesturing to the plain white shirt he's wearing. "We're quittin—"

"That's not my point!" He recoils a little at her snap and she forces herself to breathe in again. "The point was, _she_ put us in that situation and now she's gonna help us find him."

"...Are you sure it's a good idea?" Brock asks, concern furrowing his voice. Her glare darts to him, and she shrugs helplessly and after a second looks away again, her hands still tight, tight at her sides.

"Do you have a better one?"

He doesn't. She turns back to the trio and tries to keep her voice firm. "She's got a lot of people too, doesn't she? Spies," she says. "We need that. It could give us a chance to find him, or—she's got someone inside the team's headquarters too, she told us about that. It could—at least it could tell us if—Giovanni's got him already."

The three of them exchange concerned stares once again. "You know, that's kind of a whole lot you're asking there," Jessie comments after a moment, quirking one eyebrow. "I don't know if she'll agree."

Misty's fingers dig further into the sheet. At the bottom of her chest something quivers; pushes. "If she doesn't agree tell her Giovanni's gonna be the last of her worries."

There's a pause. "...Um, yeah." Jessie blinks then. "Not to say you can't look pretty threatening if you put your mind to it, but I'm afraid you're really gonna have to step up your game a bit if you want to compete with the bo—err, with Giovanni on that front."

She closes her eyes. In the dark of her eyelids she sees the glow of Gyarados' hyper beam like it's burned onto her retinas; sees it shoot towards Abbie and throw her off her feet. "Has Giovanni actually _killed_ any of her kids yet?"

A perplexed silence. She opens her eyes. "Has he?"

"...huh, I don't think—"

"Because I might have." The tremble deepens, rising like nausea, and she thinks again of the yellow glow, of the terrible sound of the woman's head against the door, finally letting the thought she had been pushing down at the back of her mind click into shape. She swallows. Her mouth feels like dust. "That should make me reasonably threatening. Shouldn't it?"

"Misty—" Brock starts. The mattress dips as he leans down on one knee next to her and tries to lay a hand on her arm. She flinches away from it and keeps her eyes fixed into Jessie's despite the burning growing at the back of them, despite the queasiness climbing up her throat.

"So tell her that," she manages, "if she refuses to help us—tell her—" and then something gives way and she lowers her head and presses her palms against her eyes, tears filtering warm through her lashes. Around her there's silence again for a moment. Then Jessie's voice, but so different this time it almost doesn't sound like her voice at all, all of its sharp edges sandpapered away.

"...You didn't kill anyone, kid. You were cornered, so was your pokémon, and it defended you and itself. That's all that happened."

She wipes her eyes and looks back up. "It doesn't matter. If she's dead she isn't—any less dead because it was self defense, is she?"

"Well, she had it coming anyway," Meowth shrugs. Jessie steps on his tail. "Ow! What? I just said what everyone was thinking!"

"Shut that mouth," she barks. Then turns back to her with a sigh and her voice softens a little again: "Alright, alright, we'll talk to her." A hesitation. "...We'll see if we can convince her _without_ threatening her remaining family first."

"Great." She rubs the corner of one eye again. "Thanks."

"He's only been gone a few hours anyway," James adds. "I'm sure we're still in time. Don't worry."

"A few _minutes_ could have been enough for them to take him. So don't tell me not to worry. Just—do something."

He doesn't retort. Another moment goes by; then Jessie claps her hands to break the silence and turns on her heels to the door. "Fine. Enough with the talking. Let's see if we can get a hold of the lady, go go!"

James and Meowth follow suit, but James stops in his track after half a step and turns back around. "By the way," he says, "I'd stay here and keep my eyes well open in the meantime, if I were you. Don't go about looking for him. The boss—err, our _former_ boss sure ain't happy about this whole situation. For all we know he's just waiting for the right chance to get rid of you both and make it look like some freak accident."

"Gotcha," Brock sighs. Then adds: "Thank you for the help. Again."

Jessie rolls her eyes and steps out of the room. "Yeah, yeah. Thank us later."

***

The slits in the blinds draw thin rectangles of sunlight on the floor. Misty watches them move slowly, slowly, and disappear finally as the sun turns the corner. Her palms twinge: when she looks at them there's red crescent-shaped marks dug deep across her lifelines. She closes her fists again and her nails slot back into them. One whole morning later and he's still gone and the trio is still not back, and she can't do anything about it but sit and wait.

The door creaks open. At the edge of her vision Brock steps back in, a plastic cup in each hand; softly kicks it closed again with his heel. _Creee-ak._ He walks up to her and she sticks her nails deeper into her skin.

"Don't say it," she warns him. "They could be—torturing him right now for all we know, so don't say that it's all gonna be okay or that we'll find him and he'll be fine. Just don't."

He sits down and places one of the cups under her nose. "I was just going to say that I got you this. Tea."

She blinks. Then lets her breath out in a sigh and takes it, but holds it in her hands without taking the lid off, watching the floor still. She pulls her lip between her teeth.

"I thought—" The plastic of the cup crinkles under her fingers. "I thought he wouldn't do it. I thought I'd managed to—at least talk some sense into him."

Brock clicks his tongue. For a second he says nothing. "Well, I told him not to do anything stupid and he said he wouldn't," he sighs then. "Twice. So I guess that makes two of us who overestimated his common sense, if it makes you feel any better." He pauses, then lowers one hand and ruffles the fur on Pikachu's back. "Or three."

She shakes her head: "Arceus, what was he _thinking?!_ "

"Probably that it was the best he could do to keep us safe."

"Well what did he expect? That we'd just—go back home and pretend nothing happened? That we wouldn't try to find him?"

Brock takes a sip of his tea. "Sometimes fear makes you do... really stupid things."

Misty thinks of the concern she heard in his voice earlier, spread like ripples on the water. Thinks of how a couple hours ago she went to the bathroom and when she walked back out he was sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaken by a slight tremble like a weight was on them. She let the door click behind her back and he looked up and immediately forced his lips into a smile: _Just resting my eyes for a moment._ She takes the lid off her cup and stares down at it. "You know, Brock, you don't—have to do this."

He gives a small shrug: "Do what? Bring you tea?"

"No I mean— _this._ " She closes her eyes. "If you don't think it's a good idea you don't have to—I can do it alone. I can talk to her alone. I just have to do _something._ "

"Don't be silly. Come on now, I can only take one of you being unreasonable at once, don't do this to me." Brock's voice is soft. "It may not be the best idea, but it's all we've got, right?, so it's still better than leaving him alone out there. And I'm definitely not gonna leave _both_ of you alone, nope, not gonna happen, so... of course I'm in too."

She doesn't retort. She blows on her tea and forces herself to gulp down some, even though nausea is still twisting her stomach into wet rags; and they wait. There isn't anything else to do.

***

_Please be alright. Please, you stupid idiot, just be alright._

***

It's nearing sunset by the time Brock's pokégear finally rings, and she's paced back and forth across the room about a million times and driven her nails so hard into her palms that they sting now every time she opens or closes her fingers. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, one hand already reaching for the strap of her backpack, she watches him nod a couple times at whatever Jessie is saying and then hang up: "James is gonna take us to her. Come on, let's go."

The balloon ride is short and bumpy: gusts of a sharp wind rock the basket and whistle between the ropes, keeping James busy fumbling with the burner. Below them unfold streets and rooftops and the green splashes of gardens. The gray of what looks to be a small industrial complex at last.

They land next to a warehouse. Misty takes her hair off her face with numb fingers while James secures the balloon, the flesh of her arms rolled up into goosebumps. At her feet Pikachu's cheeks flicker with nervous static sparkles.

She's already waiting when they walk in, stood between Jessie and Meowth, and Misty's hands twitch again into fists. She wonders if Jessie did have to resort to her half-baked threat to get her to come and for a second hesitates to meet her glance, but she swallows then and forces herself to look up, her mouth dry, dry. Mrs. R's face is unreadable and tight, a marble statue's face; yet somehow she looks smaller, like she shrank slightly into herself, the gold of her eyes clouded behind her glasses. For a thick, lingering moment no one says a word. Then the woman clears her voice.

"I suppose I owe you an apology."

"Your apologies aren't going to get Ash back here," Misty snaps. Brock's hand squeezes her elbow slightly, a warning. The woman's eyes narrow.

"From what Jessie told me, you still need my help," she says. "I've made an error in judgment and you paid the consequences, and for that I am terribly sorry. Believe me, I am. But what your friend did _after_ was his own reckless decision and I'm not responsible for it. I will help you because I think I should, but not because I'm under some obligation to do so, so kindly put your anger aside and then we'll talk."

Misty bites the inside of her cheek and holds the words on her tongue. Brock keeps his fingers around her arm. "We're just really worried," he puts in. Mrs. R nods.

"You have a reason to be. Now," and her glance turns back to Misty, flint behind her lens "if you will let me speak: I heard from my contact at the headquarters before you came here. He informed me that Giovanni's tracking parties still haven't been called back to the base."

She lets her breath out a little. "So they haven't found him?"

"So it would seem." _But_ : there's a _but_ in her voice. "There's something else you should probably be aware of, though."

"Something what?"

"Giovanni himself has headed for Viridian City this morning. He's in town as we speak," Mrs R. says. Misty's gut wrenches. "Now, we can't entirely rule out a coincidence. I don't believe much in those, especially when it comes to him, but he does preside over several businesses in town, including the Viridian City gym, so his presence might be due to something unrelated to us, but—"

"Wait—the gym?" Brock stops her. He shakes his head, his brow crumpled into a frown: "I thought—Agatha ran it while a new permanent gym leader is being selected?"

The woman makes a small "hm" sound. "And she's been doing that for... I believe short of three years now? Quite a long time for the position to remain vacant, you'll concur." She sighs. "I think at this point you have at least an idea of just how much Giovanni has his hands into, aye? The Viridian City gym has been under his control for quite a long while. He used to administrate it himself, even, but he stepped back after part of it was destroyed during a match if my memory doesn't fail me."

Misty blinks—a faint echo at the back of her mind, James' voice: _Team Rocket's plans are far too complex for you to understand,_ or something like that. The three of them standing on the platform on one side of the arena as Ash tried to challenge the gym leader for an Earth Badge and the roof collapsing after the explosion. Next to her James rubs the back of his neck, exhaling a low whistle through his teeth.

"...Oh. Yeah," Brock says. "I think—that was us."

Mrs. R's eyebrows shoot up. "It is a small world," she comments. "Well, officially Giovanni gave up the position after that, both for his safety and because the incident brought some unwanted media attention on the gym and his person. Of course though he made sure to find some clause that would allow him to retain ownership of the place and select a deputy who would do his bidding, so the practice to elect a new permanent gym leader has been delayed indefinitely for the past three years and will probably be for years to come, the gym has remained at his disposal to function as a cover for his activities, and Agatha has been acting as a figurehead for him to meddle with League decisions. In exchange for some really nice extras in her paycheck, I suppose." A click of her tongue. "So as I was saying, Giovanni's presence in Viridian might not concern us. Still, I think it's best to keep our eyes open."

"We need to find Ash." It comes out wobbly, hitching along the way. "We need to find him before he does."

"Aye, I was getting there. Jessie's told me about what you wanted me to do. I've already spoken to a few trusted people and asked them to be on the lookout for someone who might match his description." She pauses and for a second her face seems to be drawn tighter at the edges, her lips pulled into a thin line. "Actually trusted this time. But regardless, I didn't disclose any details on who he is or who is after him and asked as a personal favor. They should get back to me if they see him. I'm afraid that's the extent of what I can do."

Misty breathes. Tries: slowly, in and out, like Brock told her to do this morning, but it still caches in her throat and hardly seems to reach her lungs at all. It's not enough, they might still not find him fast enough. "As for you," the woman is saying, "you can spend the night here if you want. It's not as nice as the other place, but there's a couple bunk beds in the back. After that, though, you should go back to your gyms." She punctuates the words with a tip of her head. "I am still helping you. I understand you might no longer be too keen on helping me after our... mishap, but it's in your interest as well that you do what we agreed on. Also, while it's true that Giovanni wouldn't enjoy the fuss that the death of a gym leader or former gym leader would likely bring, you're not untouchable, and hiding away and covering your tracks might actually make it easier for him to get at you without causing much of a sensation. You're probably safer hidden in plain sight."

Neither of them retorts. The woman fishes a pokégear out of her skirt pocket and hands it to Jessie, who in turn walks up to drop it in Misty's hands. "I will use that to get in touch if I have any news."

Misty clutches her fingers around it. Swallows. "There's—something else."

Mrs. R makes a "speak" gesture. Misty breathes in again.

"I want a weapon. A—a gun, or something."

"You don't," says Brock. She glares at him:

"I already nearly got one of my pokémon killed. I'm not going to risk that again." She turns back to Mrs. R. "I want a gun."

The woman raises one eyebrow. For a second her features looks a lot like Abbie's, the same quirk, same gold, and Misty's stomach squeezes and turns. "I believe Jessie, James and Meowth can provide for that and find you _a gun or something._ Can't you?" she replies. "Now, if you haven't got any more requests, I think I've said everything I intended to say."

With that she turns and makes to leave, hands firmly knotted behind her back; but after a few steps she pauses again. In the oblique neon light Misty sees her shoulders stiffen. "By the way," she says, "Abigail, my daughter, is alive. Thought you might want to know."

Misty's insides turn to water. "She's—she is?"

"A woman in her thirties, matching her description, was brought into Viridian City's hospital yesterday with a few cracked ribs and a mild head injury," Mrs. R continues, still without turning. "No identification documents on her. Vanished as soon as she regained consciousness. I thought knowing might give you some peace of mind."

She swallows again. The woman glances back at her from above her shoulder. The gold of her eyes is sharp, cutting; sunlight on glass.

"Threats don't suit you, child. Leave them to those you're fighting against."

***

_I know my way through the night to your door_

_you know the blood that I'm owed is all yours_

Most of the day he spends hidden away in a smelly alley, after putting as much distance between himself and the pokémon center as his legs let him. His back flat against the wall, he listens to the rabbit's run of his his heart and drags his knees up to his chest, trying and failing to gather the courage for what he needs to do next. He squeezes his eyes shut and his throat's all sand, all gravel, so dry swallowing makes a painful clicking sound.

But: _for as long as he's alive and free there's no place in the world I'll be safe from him,_ he told Brock and Misty yesterday. And it's not just him that won't be, is it? It stopped being just him the moment he knocked on Misty's door, the moment he waited for her to open instead of realizing what he'd done and turning on his heels to run off again. Going, gone, without letting her know. But now it's too late and he's dragged them all with him, Misty, then Brock, Pikachu, and maybe his mom too, maybe the professor, maybe everyone else. They're never going to be safe either, not if they don't give up on him and they won't, so he has to, _has to,_ and they'll hate him for it probably but that's fine, that's nothing more than he deserves. They'll be okay eventually. They were before he came back.

They'll be alive.

The day rolls by. Shadows stretch and deepen and his head lolls and maybe he sleeps a little, and awakes with a gasp after what might be a minute or an hour. His stomach twinges with hunger. But still he can't get his legs to move, can't get his body to unfold from the tight knot he's gathered it into.

It's dark again when he finally forces himself to stand. Shivering in the harsh wind that's risen, half-stumbling on a plastic bag swept at his feet, he steps out of the alley and tries to orient himself. He's seen this part of Viridian City before, he thinks: he was sent here once on a mission. Not this exact corner, but close—he recognizes a neon sign peeking between rooftops. The Team Rocket headquarters are way too far from the city to reach on foot; he'll have to go for the next best thing.

He finds the Viridian City gym after some wandering. For a while he just stands in front of it, his breath frozen at the bottom of his chest.

Breaking the window open is easy enough. He taught him how to do that, after all. Swinging his legs over the sill and letting himself inside is even easier. The carpet swallows his footsteps.

Blinking, he makes out the room in the semi-dark: the thick wooden desk, the armchair. He's been here too, Giovanni showed him this place. Sat on that armchair and told him about everything he controlled, all the strings he held in his hand. _You might, someday._

So he crumples up again on the floor behind the desk and waits, clenching his hands on his knees to keep them from shaking. For hours the only noises he hears are the occasional chatter and engine spluttering outside, and the window he left open swinging against the wall. He's not really expecting him to be here now; but with some luck there'll still be someone who can get him to him.

But after a time there's the slow, gut-wrenchingly familiar sound of footsteps along the hallway, leather shoes against marble floor, and something in him cracks, goes to pieces like ice underfoot, like windowpanes in a storm. He glances towards the door and his hands tremble harder, harder, and the rest of him follows suit, his throat clamped shut.

The footsteps stop. A key turning in the lock; the soft creak of the door turning on its hinges. The click of the switch and then light, suddenly, thrusting into his pupils.

A pause.

He can't see him, he knows _he can't see him_ , not yet, not from there, the desk has to be blocking his view. But he still pauses. Maybe it's the open window that clues him in. Or maybe he can just tell.

"I hope you cleaned your shoes before stepping on my carpet," Giovanni says.

Ash swallows. Gravel; sand. Takes a breath like through a concrete wall.

"Did you know?" he hears himself ask, in a hoarse husk of a voice. "Did you know I'd come back? Is that why you didn't do anything?"

"I suspected you might," comes the answer. "I'm curious as to what prompted it, though."

_I'll kill you,_ Ash thinks. _If it's the last thing I do._ But he unfolds, standing on shaky legs, and out loud he says: "You were right. I don't—belong out there anymore. It's not my place. This is."

Giovanni raises his eyebrows. He stands tall on the door and Ash's heart thunders in his ears. He could do it now: could try. But he can tell Giovanni is wary enough of his change of heart to be prepared to react, knows him well enough to know that he's more than capable of getting his hands dirty if he has to, much as he doesn't like it; and if he fails he won't have another chance for who knows how long. He needs to wait, needs him to trust him enough to let him close first.

So he doesn't. And, "Well," the man says. "Surely you'll understand that your little act of rebellion can't go unpunished. Although, since you came back on your own accord, perhaps this time I'll tell my men to be a little gentler."

Ash musters a shrug. "Just—leave my friends out of it."

"Oh, _I_ won't do anything to your friends." He doesn't like the way he puts emphasis on that _I._ "Unless they force me to."

Ash bites his lips and says nothing. _I'll kill you,_ he thinks again, and his fists shake, shake. _Even if I die trying. I will._

_the wishes I've made are too vicious to tell_

_everyone knows I am going to hell_

_and if it's true_

_I'll go there with you_


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: Thank you for reading and for your patience, once again.  
> I don't actually know a single thing about guns, so for James' "lesson" I trusted google. And an episode of The Walking Dead. It's very likely that I wrote something very wrong, in which case I'm sorry.

"Do you even know how to use one of these?"

"Yeah, point and shoot, can't be that hard. Give it."

"Point and shoot, sure," James mumbles. He sighs: "Alright, listen up first, I don't wanna have you accidentally shooting your friends or yourself on my conscience. Um, yeah— see this here?" He holds the gun close enough to her face for her to see but still not enough to attempt to snatch it, his thumb on a small button on the side. "That's the magazine release. To load it, you need to take this out..."—he does it—"...and put the bullets in, like this."

He shows her and slides the magazine back in place, tapping it against his palm with a clack. "You got eight. Count 'em or you're gonna pull the trigger at some point and the gun'll be empty and then you'll probably be dead. And, um..." His thumb moves to another button. "This one's the safety. Leave it in until you need to shoot. If you don't you'll shoot yourself in the foot and then it'll be on me. Got all that?"

"Yeah."

"And don't ever point it at anyone you don't want to shoot. Don't point it at your friends or your pokémon or yourself. And especially don't ever point it at _me_."

She rolls her eyes a little. "Yeah, I wasn't planning to."

James sighs again. "Now," he says, and extends his arm in front of himself, aiming the gun across the empty warehouse: "say you need to shoot. I hope you don't, but you don't always get what you want, am I right? Say the person you wanna shoot is right in front of you." Misty's eyes follow in the same direction and the hair on the back of her neck rises on end a bit, as if expecting someone to really be standing amidst the dusty air. "You take the safety off. You aim—but you still don't touch the trigger. Chances are this is going down real fast. The other person probably has a gun too. You're gonna be scared, trust me, even if you think you won't be, I promise ya, and you're gonna want to pull the trigger as soon as you can. But if you miss you'll be dead." He straightens his arm. The barrel of the gun gives a sharp glint. "You need to wait till it's up to your eye. And hold still. _Then_ you shoot."

His finger contracts slightly on the trigger, like to punctuate his words; but he doesn't pull it. Instead he lowers the gun and turns back to her. "Think you gonna remember all that?"

"Yeah." There's a slight knot in her stomach, though. "Safety, aim, get it up to my eye, shoot. Now give it."

"Patience. Now, if you've never tried, your aim probably needs some work, so this"—he pulls a metallic cylinder out of his pocket and shows it to her—"is a silencer. You can practice here a bit before we leave."

He screws the silencer to the gun, then pauses, nervously pursing his lips. Misty raises her eyebrows and holds out her hand. He lets go another sigh.

"Alright, alright." He flicks the safety back on and flips the gun in his grasp, handing it to her by the barrel. "I'm giving a loaded gun to a thirteen-year-old who by the looks of it hasn't slept in a week. Definitely not something with a lot of potential to end horribly wrong, nuh-uh, nope."

"I'm fourteen," she informs him. Her fingers close around the weapon: it's heavy, the metal cold against her palm. James throws his head back.

"Oh, _fourteen_. My bad, that clearly makes everything better." He lets go and waves his hands in the air. "Now _don't_ point it. Remember what I just told ya. Wait there."

She watches him half-trot to the other side of the building and pick some stuff out of a bunch of junk piled in a corner. "...Are you still really sure you want to do this?" comes Brock's voice after a few moments. He's been silent as James instructed her, watching, but the drumming of his fingers against his elbow betrays his uneasiness. Misty looks at him and then down at Pikachu, crouched with his ears pricked up at his feet. Sweat lines her palm a little. She shrugs.

"I need something to defend us. I'm not going to risk my pokémon's life again if I can avoid it."

"Maybe I should have it instead."

"No, I want it." Something deep down in her chest quivers. She turns away: "I—I _need_ it. When we find Ash I— _need_ to know I can do something. I need to know I won't just stand there while someone hurts him."

Across from them James's gathered a bunch of bottles and boxes into a straight line. He stands contemplating his work for a moment, then turns and walks back. "...Alright," he says as he reaches her, sounding anything but optimistic. "Let's try this."

He steps behind her and guides her hold of the gun. "Safety's on," he reminds her, and waits for her to flip it off again. "Now, that first bottle. See it? Try to go for that."

Misty draws a small breath. "Where did you even get this?" she asks, her eyes on the designed target. He gives a sort of half-shrug.

"We, um—let's say we know some people too, hehe. Did you ever wonder where we got all that stuff when we were trying to steal Pikachu?"

She glances back at him. "Yeah, I did wonder about that."

"Yeah." He repositions her arm slightly. "Go on. Try."

It takes all eight bullets and a sore wrist before she actually knocks the bottle down. She rubs it with a slight wince as James takes the gun to reload it, her ears ringing some: it's really not _silent_ , despite the promise of the cylinder at the end of the barrel. Gunsmoke hangs sour in the air.

"Are you really quitting the team?" she questions, eyeing him. James pushes the magazine back into place.

"Yeah." He hands her the weapon and kicks gloomily at the floor, scattering a few pieces of debris. "We discussed it. Let's call it a difference of opinion, shall we? We don't really wanna be a part of that anymore with everything we know."

Misty studies him for a couple seconds. "But you had to know about—the sort of things Giovanni does. At least some of it."

"Yeah, well." James steps behind her again and directs her hand towards the next bottle. "What do you want me to tell you, kid? It's not like we had no idea. We did know about some of that. But it's not like we had much of a choice either, you know? I mean, you know us, complete failures at everything. There just wasn't much else for us to do if we quit. Go on, the second one."

She fires. The bullet hits the side of the bottle and sends it crashing to the wall. "So what are you going to do now?"

He seems to consider the question for a moment; then shrugs. "Well, right now I'm gonna make sure you don't kill anyone you don't mean to kill. I guess we'll see after that."

***

"I can practice a little longer," she insists maybe an hour later, her eyes lingering on the line of broken glass and toppled boxes along the wall. James shakes his head, though, and takes the gun from her hand to load it one last time.

"Nah, kiddo, I say that's enough for now. You're gonna want to save some bullets for when you really need 'em, yeah? Besides, if we leave now maybe I can get you two home before it's dark."

"It's still early. We have a lot of time," she protests, though she knows they don't: it took over a day to fly from Cerulean to Pallet and Viridian's not much closer. She keeps staring at the broken bottles, at the sunlight shining on them through the narrow windows, and her stomach squeezes, twists. Her nails sink into her palms a little. James taps the gun against his: _clack_.

"I'm taking you back to Cerulean City, right? That's quite a flight from here. If we put if off much longer we're gonna have to stop somewhere for the night, and I don't know how good an idea that is considering, well, everything."

Misty bites down on her lip. After a couple moments Brock's hand closes around her elbow.

"There's no point in staying here, anyway," he tells her, guessing her thoughts. "There's nothing we can do that we haven't already done."

"Yep," says Jessie. She and Meowth got back from wherever they reaccompanied Mrs. R as she practiced her aim and at one point a particularly lucky shot had Jessie whistling through her teeth. She shuffles her weight from foot to foot now and laces her fingers behind her head, stretching her neck: "Plus you heard the lady. You're gonna be safer at your gyms than here. Can't save your friend if you're dead, right?"

"But if—" Misty starts, then stops, not quite knowing what she was going to follow that _if_ with. If someone finds him, if he needs help; if he needs _them_ and they're all the way to Cerulean and Pewter City, miles away from there. The marks she dug into her palms sting, sting. Brock gives her arm a squeeze.

"I think they're right for this once. We should go."

She swallows and says nothing, her insides all knots. James hands her the gun and more spare bullets with it. "Here, these are yours. Mew, I'm so going to regret this. Try not to make me regret it, 'kay? Pretty please."

She drops both into her backpack along with the pokégear Mrs. R gave her last evening. Together they make a weight, pulling the straps down on her shoulder. She stands back up and breathes, once, twice, feeling that weight lodge against the small of her back. Finally she turns and follows Brock and the others to the door. "Come, Pikachu."

They all step out of the building, but it's only James that walks up to the balloon: Jessie and Meowth stop a few steps before it. Misty glances back at them.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Nah, I don't even know if it'd hold all of us," Jessie answers, nodding her head to the balloon. "We'll stay. You know, just in case someone's needed here, or something."

She shrugs, a no-big-deal kind of shrug, her fingers still laced behind the nape of her neck. Misty stops in her tracks to stare at her, slightly moved. It takes a beat for Jessie to register the pause and look down at her.

"What now?"

She shakes her head a little, a small hint of a smile finding its way to her lips. "You're—good people."

A blink. Then Jessie's back to feigning indifference, though a bit redder around the cheeks. "Yeah, sure. Don't hug me though, that'd be weird."

They leave. Misty grasps the edge of the basket and watches as the asphalt grows farther away from their feet, as the warehouse and Jessie and Meowth become harder to make out, even squinting. As they begin to leave behind the city and him with it. The wind sends her hair flapping on her face: she pushes it away and when she looks again she can no longer tell which of the roofs below was the one they left.

"We stopping in Pewter City first?" James wants to know. Brock shakes his head.

"No, just take us both to Cerulean. I'll go with her."

***

The wind is favorable, at least, and in a matter of hours they're flying at full speed over Viridian Forest, over the sea of trees turning orange and red in places and farther still, over the skyscrapers of Celadon City and towards where the sun's starting to set over more treetops. They don't talk much at all. At some point James rummages through a sack at their feet and pulls some cans of food he hands to them, and she swallows the contents of hers mechanically, barely registering the taste. She feels nauseous after.

Mrs. R's pokégear is silent.

It's dark when they finally come close to Cerulean and the city is a cluster of lights in the distance. Tired, she leans against the edge and watches them sway in front of her eyes, growing bigger. Brock takes off his jacket and lays it gently over her shoulders.

The gym is already closed for the night, but there's light coming through some of the windows and the front door is still unlocked as well when she tries the knob. Brock waves a last thank you to James and they walk in. She flips the switch on and blinks a little as light fills the gym's hall: everything is still how she left it, the counter and the aquarium and the plant in the corner. She doesn't know what she expected. But the normalcy of it all is almost crushing, and for a handful of seconds all she can do is stare at them, her fingers wringing the straps of her backpack.

There's footsteps then, and Daisy pokes her head in from the hallway. "Thought I heard something. You're back?" she says and steps into the hall, a bucket of pokémon food in one hand. Her eyes go from her to Brock to Pikachu and back to her and her brow furrows into a frown. "You look, like, terrible. Are you okay? Where's—?"

She stops with his name on her lips, like she's afraid to say it. Misty presses hers together and for a long moment can't muster an answer. "He ran off," is all that comes out of her in the end. "We tried to keep him safe and he—that idiot just— _ran off_."

Daisy's frown deepens. "It's a long story at this point," Brock puts in with a sigh. Before she can ask more there's another voice, an eager _toge-pri_ coming from the hallway at her back, and Misty's chest flutters as Togepi dodges her sister's legs and flings itself to her. She crouches down to catch it, her backpack sliding from her shoulder and hitting the floor with a muffled thud: "Togepi, oh, shh, I'm sorry, I missed you too, shh."

Daisy sets down the bucket. Slowly, almost hesitant, she walks across the hall and stops in front of her. "Let's... talk, okay?" she says shaking her head a little as Misty looks up, her voice soft with concern. "Tell me what happened."

***

They sit on the edge of the pool while Brock goes for a shower and she tells Daisy the whole story, starting from the moment she heard knocking on their door in the middle of the night. She knew some of it already from Brock and from her phonecall, but even so it takes probably the better part of the next hour and when she's finally done talking her sister stares at her for a good handful of moments with her eyes huge and her mouth twisted at the corners into a pained crease, processing everything. "So all that time," she says in the end and shakes her head again, her glance wandering towards the pool, "all that time you, like—thought he was dead..."

Misty folds herself around her knees. The water glints blue-white in the moonlight. "He was alive, yeah. And now he's—they'll—"

Her voice cracks. "Oh, sis'," Daisy whispers, and seconds later she's gathered her up in her arms and pulled her into a hug. It's sudden and stiff and they're both unused to it, and her face ends up awkwardly squashed into her sister's hair, but she hadn't realized how much she needed it: her whole body aches. Daisy holds her tight tight for a few moments still, then grabs her by the shoulders to look her in the face. "That's so awful. I'm so so sorry."

"I'm so _tired_ ," Misty admits. She reaches for her backpack and rummages through it for Gyarados' pokéball. Her knuckles bump against the handle of the gun and she jumps a little and quickly pushes it it farther down: that she didn't tell Daisy about. Her sister watches her release the pokémon into the pool, kicking her heel against the tiles on the side. Water ripples.

"Can I help?" she wants to know. "Is there, like, anything that I can do?"

Gyarados swims to the bottom and then back to her, a darker shape under the surface. A knot in her throat, Misty leans closer and stretches one hand to touch the blue scales of its crest, expecting anger and mistrust, finding neither. "I'm so sorry," she whispers again, and then: "No. You've—done enough just by listening. I think—I shouldn't even have told you about it. I've probably put you in danger as well just by telling you about all that."

Daisy looks at her for a second. Then at once grabs her ponytail and gives it a light tug. "Hey! What was that for now?!" Misty protests, rubbing her scalp though it didn't really hurt. Daisy crosses her arms.

"I'm your big sister, you don't need to, like, lie to protect me. It should be the other way around."

She starts out disgruntled, but by the end of the sentence she sounds genuinely hurt. Misty turns her eyes back to the water.

"Thanks. But I don't think there's anything you can do, Daisy. I don't even know what else I can do myself."

She watches as Gyarados slowly circles the pool, its back rising for a moment above the surface and shimmering the same. Daisy is silent for a bit.

"You'll find him," she says then. She can't hold back a wince.

"Yeah, everyone always says that. You don't _know._ "

"But I do," Daisy retorts. Misty scoffs. "I know _you_ , sis'. And I know you get real scary when you're angry—"

"Yeah, well, you know, this is a bit more serious than—Lily forgetting her turn to do the dishes for three days in a row or—"

"—and I also know you wouldn't let anyone stop you when it comes to the ones you care for. So I know you'll find him. I just, like, do. And you're not allowed to disagree."

That earns her a small twitch of her lips, an almost, not-quite smile. Daisy lowers her arms at her sides. "How about we get to bed now? You know, I wasn't kidding before, you look like you haven't slept in a month."

"You're not too far off," Misty sighs. Then shakes her head. "I wanna go for a swim first. I need to clear my mind."

Gyarados' fin emerges again from the water. It catches the moonlight in an opalescent glow. "Okay," says Daisy, then adds: "I'm gonna go see if Brock is done with the shower. I'll get a warm bath ready for when you're done, how about that? Don't take too long."

With that she gives her shoulder a squeeze and walks away, leaving her in an empty gym. Misty stares at the pool for a bit still. She stands then, and "Keep an eye on Togepi for me, will you? It'll only be a couple minutes, promise," she tells Pikachu. The pokémon nods.

She grabs a swimsuit from the dressing room and climbs to the top of the diving board. She breathes: once, twice. Outside the window she can see James' balloon. She stretches her arms above her head and jumps.

The familiar shock of the water closing in around her is like a whiplash to her senses. She swims to the bottom, to where the light reaches muffled and quiet, past Gyarados' coils. To where the only sound is that of her thoughts.

_You'll find him. I know_ you, _sis'._

She wraps her arms around her knees.

_Please be alright,_ she thinks, for what must be at least the millionth time since Pikachu woke her up. _Just let me find you. Please. Please._

***

_please be_ —

***

"Alright," comes Giovanni's voice, and the kicking stops, finally. "I say that's enough of a punishment for now. I hope this time around you've learned your lesson."

He spits bloody spit on the floor and tries to catch his breath as his vision unfogs. The men's hands claw at his arms and pull him to his feet and pain rips through him again, a wave of blinding white. He grits his teeth, though, and somehow musters the strength to lift his head and look up.

Giovanni stands on the door. Tall, so tall his eyes are out of sight. "Say it again now," he tells him. "I want to see that you're really sincere."

_I'll kill you,_ is all that goes in Ash's dazed mind. But he swallows, his stomach twisting at the metallic taste sliding down his throat, and forces himself to say, "You—were right. I don't—belong out there. This is my place. I—I see it now."

A silence. "Very well," Giovanni considers then, though still with a guarded edge of suspicion in his words. He steps back: " _Basta così._ You can escort him to his room."

They drag him towards the door and through the hallway and he does his best to keep his feet, despite the pain threatening to buckle his knees every other step. It's just pain. He's had worse; he can take this. The numbers on the elevators he's pushed into flash. Up: they're not taking him underground to the cells, and even through the fog still clogging his head he feels a wave of relief rush over him. The doors open and there's more dragging and pushing and finally he's shoved into a room, and he staggers forwards and his legs do give, sending him slamming knees and elbows on the floor. The door bangs shut as he attempts to right himself, leaving him in the dark. A latch snaps into place. Silence.

He gathers himself up (tries) and looks around. It's not so dark once his eyes begin to adjust from the stark neon light in the hallway, and he recognizes the familiar, sterile room he was let into once he started obeying Giovanni's orders and he started treating him slightly less like a prisoner in return. On a corner of the bed is a Team Rocket uniform, neatly folded.

He wipes the blood from his nose and chin with the back of his hand and stands. Careful, he peels off his shirt and looks down, examining the damage: there's a constellation of fresh bruises blooming on his ribs. They hurt to touch, but he didn't feel anything crack this time, at least.

(It's just pain. He can take this.)

He takes off the rest of his clothes as well and slips into the uniform. He doesn't look at himself anymore after that—instead he sits on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest like he did on the helicopter ride taking them back to the base. He tucks his head into them and shuts his eyes and tries to imagine Pikachu's weight on his shoulder. Misty's fingers stroking his arm, gently; not hurting, not hitting. They still believed in him, somehow, despite everything. And maybe he can no longer save himself, but he needs to believe that he can at least still do one good thing. That he can still save them.

***

"You can, like, take the day off and get some rest if you want. I can take care of the gym for today as well," Daisy tells her in the morning. Misty shakes her head.

"Thanks, but I've had enough of sitting around. I need to do something, so—let me do this at least."

So she feeds the pokémon and scrubs the aquariums clean, and when a challenger shows up she plows through his team with more force than necessary. "...You know gym leaders aren't supposed to be impossible to beat, right?" Brock reminds her once the trainer leaves. She kicks her heel to the floor with a sigh.

"Yeah. I think I got a little carried away."

The morning is halfway done when Mrs. R's pokégear rings. Misty freezes in place, her hands going white-knuckled around the mop she was wiping water from the floor with; and less than a second later she's dropped it in the bucket and she's sprinting towards the bleachers where she left her backpack and rummaging through it until her finger close around the buzzing device. She pulls it out and flips it open with shaky hands, her heart in her temples. Brock and Pikachu crowd at her sides to look.

The small screen lights up and Mrs. R's face appears on it, slightly flickery at the edges. She squints at them through her glasses.

"Are you back in Cerulean City?"

Misty only musters a nod, the words caught somewhere along her throat. "Yeah, we took your advice," Brock answers for both of them. "I—I'll get back to Pewter soon enough, I just wanted to make sure Misty got here safe first."

The woman nods back, but she stalls then, pursing her lips and lowering her glance a little, and Misty's stomach crumples to a fist. Finally she exhales her breath in a sort-of sigh. "Listen," she says. The speakers crackle. "You're not going to like the news I have for you, so if you're not already sitting perhaps you should."

Misty shakes her head at the screen. She doesn't want to sit; she wants to know. "Just tell us," she manages to say, and at the back of her mind another image cruelly bubbles up: Delia looking at her from across the room and holding a cellphone, her face paler than chalk, looking at her and not talking. Mrs. R sighs again.

"Alright. I heard from my contact at the headquarters," she tells them. "He told me that some of Giovanni's tracking parties have returned to the base overnight. Giovanni's personal helicopter also did."

Her knees feel like water. "So they found him?" she hears herself ask, somewhere far away, and after a second Brock's hand closes tight around her arm as if to steady her. The woman gives another grim nod.

"Quite likely, aye. At the very least located him, but I think at this point it's safe enough to assume that even if Giovanni doesn't have him as we speak he will soon."

Misty's breath hitches in her chest and she shakes her head again, her fingers clamped around the pokégear. "Then we need to do something. We need—"

"To act with caution, that's what we need to do," the woman stops her. "It's not as simple as breaking into the headquarters and taking him back or whatever it is you're thinking. Something of that sort might as well be a suicide mission, not to mention we don't even know if he is indeed there yet. We need more information before we can even consider a course of action."

"Your contact—he didn't see him?"

"No, but he wouldn't necessarily. The headquarters are big, and someone brought in as a prisoner likely wouldn't be made a big show of."

She feels her eyes burn. "So—what, we should just—sit here and do nothing while who even knows what happens to him?"

"Aye, for now, that's exactly what you should do," Mrs. R says, firm. "I will get in touch again once I have more to tell you. In the meantime you should absolutely stay in your gym, or gyms, and not even _think_ about doing anything reckless."

_In the meantime. In the meantime_ could mean that Giovanni will have days, maybe weeks even, to hurt him again, brainwash him again, break what little there's left to be broken, and she wants to scream, wants to slam the pokégear to the floor and hear it snap in two. She does neither. On the screen the woman lowers her glance again and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, letting out another brief sigh. "I understand your concern," she says then and looks back up, locking her eyes into Misty's. "But don't forget that in opposing Giovanni you're facing someone who could crush you with a flick of his hand if he so chose. You cannot face him upfront. So for your good, and for that of your friend, you will stay put and wait until I get back to you."

The screen goes black. Misty stares at it for a moment still, blinking at her reflection; then pushes a sob back down her throat and flips the device closed. "She said—maybe they just located him. Maybe—they don't have him yet," Brock tries, but his voice is stretched thin and faltering. She drops the pokégear into her backpack and turns away.

"Don't. Please."

"Maybe—"

"Just— _don't._ "

She dodges his eyes and Pikachu's and walks back to the mop. As she picks it up there's the slight creak of the door opening and Daisy sticks her head in: "Hey sis', there's—" she starts, then pauses, frowning. "Is everything okay?"

Misty presses her lips together for a second. "Did you need something?"

"Yeah, there's—I think there's another challenger at the door, but if it's not a good moment I can, like, tell him to come back later or—"

"No." She rubs the back of her hand quickly over her eyes and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, setting the mop back into the bucket. "It's fine. Send him in."

Daisy stares at her another couple moments, then lets the door swing shut. Still not turning to look at Brock or Pikachu, Misty steps to the edge of the pool and tries to steady her breath, reaching for the pokéballs in her pocket. Tries to push what she just learned at the back of her mind.

But Daisy comes back alone. "Weird," she says with a shrug. Misty looks questioningly at her.

"What's weird?"

"There was some guy, like, standing a few steps from the door, just looking in. I thought he was a challenger. But when I went back he was gone."

Misty frowns a bit. "What did he look like?" comes Brock's voice.

"I don't know," says Daisy. "Some hunky guy. Tall, all in black. Maybe with like, some sort of red logo on his shirt? I didn't get a very good look."

It doesn't register straight away—most times she's seen Team Rocket uniforms it was Jessie and James' and those were white, not black. But as she's about to brush it off with a shrug she remembers seeing others, a few times: the men on the St. Anne. Butch and Cassidy. Ash was wearing black when she opened the door.

_All in black, maybe with like, some sort of red logo on his shirt._

A chill runs down her spine.

She turns to Brock to find the same petrified look on his face. "What?" Daisy wants to know. "Why are you guys making those faces now? Do you know who that was?"

"Close the door, Daisy," she tells her. "And if you see someone dressed like that again don't go near them. Don't talk to them. And especially don't let them in."

"Why, what's going—oh! What, you think, like—that might have been—?"

Her voice rises to a slightly panicked pitch. "Go close the door," Misty says again. Her throat is dry. Her sister looks at her wide-eyed for a moment still and then obliges, hurrying back to the hall.

She turns back to Brock. "You thought the same thing, right? That sounded like—"

"Yeah." She can see him swallow all the way from there. "It did."

Her eyes instinctively run to Togepi, still on the bleachers where it fell asleep a couple hours ago. Safe, she would add, but she's suddenly not sure anymore. "Do you think—they've been watching us since we got back here?"

Brock's hand rises to stroke the hair at the back of his head. "Well, I guess—it's not surprising, all things considered," he says. He takes a breath. "As long as they're just watching we should be—safe, I think." He stumbles a little before that word, though. "At least if we don't do anything. Remember what Mrs. R said, Giovanni probably wouldn't want to risk ending up in the spotlight for having a gym leader killed unless he had to."

"Unless he had to," Misty repeats. It falls between them like a stone in the water. He doesn't pick it up.

Not saying anything else, she walks again to the bleachers and grabs her backpack. Not for the pokégear this time; for the other thing. She slips the straps on her shoulders and the gun jabs again at her spine.

She goes back to cleaning the floor. The silence presses down on them, heavy, heavy.

***

James's parked the balloon near the trees behind the gym, trying to hide it discreetly. As discreetly as you can hide a hot air balloon shaped like a giant Meowth head. A couple hours later they walk up to it, looking cautiously around: wind rustles the tree branches, rolling her flesh up into goosebumps.

James didn't notice anyone. "Do you want to come inside?" Misty offers. He shrugs.

"Nah, 's'fine. It's quite comfortable on here. I'll keep an eye out for weird people in black while I'm at it."

When they go back Brock sits on the bleachers and searches his backpack for his own pokégear. "I should really call my family," he sighs. "I've been away a lot longer than I expected and I haven't really spoken to them since I left save for a few texts."

She fetches Pikachu and Togepi's lunches while he dials the number. Pikachu sniffs the bowl she places in front of him and barely touches it before curling back down on the floor. She wishes she had something to say to him, but she doesn't, not any more than she has anything to say to herself; so she sits down with a sigh and sets to feeding Togepi. It seems to be in an okay mood enough to eat, at least.

He thoughts wander away after a couple minutes and she absentmindedly catches bits of Brock's phonecall. "...yeah, I just told you, everything's fine here," Forrest is telling him from the pokégear's speakers. "Well, I mean, mom and Cindy are still freaking out a bit but aside from that there's no—"

"Wait—mom and Cindy are freaking out about what?" Brock stops him. There's silence for a second. Then:

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention it. It's nothing to worry about, really, it's just that Cindy thinks she's seen some weird guy around the gym and she got scared and told mom, and now mom's scared as well."

Misty lifts her head, startled. A few steps from her Brock stares at the screen.

"This weird guy," he says after a moment, "did she mention what he looked like?"

She sets Togepi down and stands, dusting crumbs of pokémon food off her fingers. "I don't really remember," Forrest answers as she walks a little closer. "Why does it matter? It was probably just some guy walking by."

"It matters because I say so. Go ask Cindy what he looked like, Forrest, please."

There's a perplexed silence and then muffled footsteps and the chattering and whispers of several different voices. "Um, yeah," Forrest comes back after a minute or so. "She said he was big and wearing what looked like a black uniform. Black gloves, boots, that sort of thing. Brock, what's this about? You look really pale all of a sudden."

She can see Brock's profile tighten. He forces a smile on his lip, though, and shakes his head at the screen. "Nothing, I must—I think I've caught some bug along the way. You're right, it was probably just someone walking by. Just to be sure, though, why—don't you all stay close for the rest of today? Help mom and dad with the gym. Arceus knows they need a hand, right? The more hands the better."

They talk a bit longer after that and Forrest asks a couple times if he's sure everything's alright, unconvinced. Brock nods and keeps the smile up; but his voice wavers slightly and as soon as the call is over he drops his hands and the pokégear into his lap and his shoulders fall. He stares at the floor for several moments, then turns to her.

"They're watching your gym too," she whispers. He shakes his head. For the first time since it all started he really seems to be at a loss about what to say or do.

"Was I wrong saying that? I didn't—I didn't want them to panic, is all. They still don't know anything about this whole story and to explain it on the phone, with—"

"I think you said the right thing," she tells him. She sits down by his side. Brock flips the pokégear over and over in his hands and she can see they're not quite firm.

"She said it," he tries to rationalize. "Mrs. R, I mean, she said it. That our families would end up pulled into this as well."

Misty bites down on her lip and lets a few moments pass. "I think—maybe you should go home," she says finally. Brock looks at her.

"It's your family," she adds. She musters a slight shrug. "I think you should be with them. You should have gone back to Pewter City anyway after all."

He taps the pokégear to his knee. Presses his lips together; turns to the floor again. "Will you be okay if I go?" he asks in the end.

"Yeah," she promises. "I can sit here doing nothing just as good by myself. And I mean, just in case, I have—"

She shows him her backpack. Brock tap-tap-taps the pokégear again and releases a breath in a sigh. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. They need you more than I do right now. And I won't be alone anyway, my sister's here. And Pikachu, and all of my pokémon."

"At least Arianne is still in Sinnoh. That's far enough from here, I hope," he considers. He's silent for a few moments, his glance wandering towards the pool. "I'll see if there's a blimp leaving for Pewter. That way James can stay here with you as well."

She pulls her lips into a small smile. "See, I'll have lots of people here with me. I'm all covered. You should go."

"I'll call as soon as I'm there."

"I'll be okay," she promises again. Brock still looks anything but convinced. But he nods, after staring at the water for a bit still, and stands gathering up his backpack and the rest of his belongings.

He pulls her into a quick one-armed hug before leaving. "Be very careful, okay?" he tells her. "I don't think I can deal with being worried out of my mind for both of you at once."

"I will," she says. And she means it. It's only hours later, when she's sitting again on the edge of the pool with nothing but the splashing noises rising from it to muffle her thoughts, that the idea that had been lurking at the back of her mind since she watched him walk away pops into shape. She gulps down a lump and something else as well, something that's almost a sob, or a whimper; and pulls her knees close. The water ripples under the lights, throwing shimmering blue patterns on the walls.

***

Giovanni has him summoned to his office in the afternoon. "I hope you're feeling better," he says, tossing a distracted glance in his direction from above a bunch of papers. "I kept my promise. Your punishment wasn't as harsh as it could have been."

Ash swallows. His fingers twitch, _do it do it do it_ , but the glare of the two men standing behind him prickles on his neck reminding him that they're not alone and so he clenches them into fists and answers, through a throat so dry the words barely come out: "I'm fine." Giovanni nods his head.

"Good to know. Because I have a job for you," he says. He sets the papers down and studies him more thoroughly, the corners of his mouth folding into a grin. "I assume you'll have no issue getting back to work straight away, seeing how you've seemingly figured out that this is where you belong, yes?"

He's got no choice. "Of course."

"Very well," Giovanni comments. He flicks his hand in the air, beckoning him to come closer, and reaches with the other for something in the drawer of his desk. First, though, in a motion casual in appearance but too slow not to be deliberate, he runs his palm over the papers he was just holding. The edges splay a little, just enough for him to see.

Ash's blood runs cold.

Clipped to one of the pages there's pictures. Misty and Brock and Pikachu are in them, getting off the trio's balloon, walking towards the Cerulean City gym. His throat turns into sandpaper. "What's that?" he manages to ask.

"Oh, nothing of your concern for now," says Giovanni. He pulls a folder from his drawer and sets it atop the photos. "Now, about your—"

"You said you wouldn't do anything to them," Ash stops him. The man raises one eyebrow at his impertinence and his immediate instinct is to recoil, and he doesn't know how he manages not to: how he manages to keep his head up and hold his glance.

"And _I_ won't, in fact." Again stressing that _I_ in the same way as the other night. "I keep my promises, as you well know. _Now_ ," he markedly picks up from where he interrupted him, "about your assignment."

He flips the folder open and Ash stares down at the pictures of more people he's supposed to hurt, take from. His stomach squeezes shut. But he has to. He has to, if he wants Giovanni to ever trust him enough to have a chance. Now more than ever with the subtle threat of those photos.

"Can you do it?" Giovanni wants to know. And he feels something inside him crumble to dust as he nods, but he does it anyway.

"Yes, sir."

***

Come the night Misty slips into bed like she's supposed to. She lets both Pikachu and Togepi snuggle under her blanket and waves a goodnight to Daisy when she stops on her door to check that she's alright. Then she waits, her eyes open wide in the dark, her heart a drum in her neck. Fingers grasped tight on her pillow, she waits until she's sure both pokémon are asleep. Until her sister in the other room probably is as well.

She tiptoes out of bed and puts her clothes back on, as quietly as she can. At her desk she scribbles a few words on a piece of paper, stumbling a bit because her hands are shaking. She throws on a hoodie and picks up the note and her backpack. She gets to the door and there she stops; and with a swooping breath she turns to get a last look at the room, at the pokémon huddled under her comforter.

_Keep an eye on Togepi for me, will you?_

She turns away with a weight in her chest. As she passes her sister's door she stops again, to slip her note in the crack under it.

She leaves her pokémon. She's not going to risk their lives as well.

She makes it to the back door before her motivation falters a little. Mrs. R's voice echoes in her mind: _something of that sort might as well be a suicide mission._ Her fingers around the knob, she closes her eyes and breathes in, slowly, slowly. Go back, a voice at the back of her head urges her; go back, you're still in time, don't open the door. Her heart is so loud in the silent hallway that she's almost afraid someone else will hear it.

_I'll take care of him, Mrs. Ketchum,_ she said. _I won't let anything happen to him this time. I promise._

She turns the knob.

It's cold outside. Pulling her hoodie tighter around herself, she takes a few uncertain steps and runs her eyes over the trees lining the yard: she sees no one, no shadows hidden in the dark, no quick movements out of the corner of her eye. She lingers there for a moment, grasping the straps of her backpack. Swallows.

_You'll find him. I know_ you, _sis'._

James is dozing asleep and he's startled to hear her approach the balloon. "Kid," he says, rubbing his hand over one eye. "What are you doing out here this late?"

Misty takes a breath and lets it go. It puffs white in the brisk night air. "Do you know where the Team Rocket headquarters are?"

He blinks at her. "Wha—?" he says, and then: "...Why do I get the feeling that I shouldn't answer?"

"Just say it," she presses. He lets his head fall back on his neck.

"Yeah, I know where the Team Rocket headquarters are. But if I'm guessing your next question right the answer is no."

"I need you to take me there," she says anyway. James groans.

"I hate being right. Nope, nu-uh, definitely no." He looks back at her. "Where's your friend? Huh"—he motions with his hand—"...tall twerp?"

"Brock," she scowls. "He had to go home. He doesn't know what I'm doing. And I need you to take me to the headquarters. They have Ash."

Probably, the same voice at the back of her mind reminds her, but even _probably_ is enough. James sighs and crosses his arms over the edge of the basket.

"Yeah, no. I'm not doing that, kid. No way."

Misty swallows again. Her throat clicks. "You taught me how to use a gun," she reminds him. He arches his eyebrows:

"Yeah, and?"

A breath. "I—I have it in my backpack right now."

James stares at her for a second still before it sinks in. "Huh—what, are you threatening _me_ now or what?"

"I'm not." She kicks at the grass under her shoe. "I'm just telling you that I _could_ , if—if you leave me with no other choice."

"Ooh, yeah, so you're _threatening to threaten_ me. You're right, that's... that's another thing entirely."

"I'm _asking_." It sounds almost like a sob. "I don't want to do that. But they have him and I can't—" She pauses and forces herself to breathe, trying to still the tremble in her chest. "Listen. Imagine if—if this was Jessie, okay? I don't know what you guys are, I don't even _care_ , but I'm not wrong to think you do care about her, am I? Imagine that—right now, as we waste time arguing in my backyard and—and risking being seen and blowing what could be your only chance to save her, imagine that someone is hurting her. And that they'll hurt her again tomorrow, and the day after that, until—it won't even be Jessie anymore. What would you do then?"

James looks at her, his mouth wavering into a downturned bow. Misty tightens her fists. He lowers his head then, and brings a hand to his temples, slowly. He wrings it into his hair.

"Mew," he wails. "I am so going to regret this." And then: "Fine, kid. Hop on."


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: We're almost there! After this there's another chapter and an epilogue and then we'll be done. I almost can't believe it. Hope you'll enjoy the last bit of the ride!  
> Thank you for reading, as usual!

_Daisy,_

_I know you'll be mad and worried when you wake up and realize I'm gone. You can yell at me for a week straight when I come back. But by the time you find this I'll already be too far for you to stop me, so please help me instead. Act like everything is normal. Don't freak out, don't call Brock. Just open the gym and get to work like you would any other day. The longer before anyone else realizes I'm not there the more time I'll have to get where I need to get safely._

_And please take care of my pokémon and Pikachu for me, and be careful. Remember what I told you, if you see anyone like the guy from yesterday stay inside and don't go near them. And absolutely DON'T call the police, for any reason. It'll only be for a short while, I promise. Love you, Misty._

***

"So what's the plan?" James asks as the balloon rises over the rooftops of Cerulean. "Because you do have a plan, right?"

Misty bites her lip and stares down at the city, its lights speckles of yellow and white in the dark. The rough edge of the basket presses into her palms. "I don't," she admits finally, and behind her James pauses for a moment.

"...Yeah. Gimme a sec," he says, adjusting the wheel on the burner. "Must be this thing's noise. Because I thought I just heard you say that you don't have a plan, and that clearly can't be what you _actually_ said, because—"

"I _don't_ ," she stops him. "I don't have a plan, fine?"

Another pause. "So wait, let me get this straight. You're making me take you to the Team Rocket headquarters on some... some crazy impromptu one-woman rescue mission and you don't even have a smidgen of an idea what you're going to do once we're there?" She nods. He groans. "That's no good, kid. That's no good at all. You gotta have a plan. That's what we always did, me and Jessie and Meowth."

Misty glances at him. "Your plans were ridiculous. And they failed every time."

"Yeah, exactly! So imagine how much worse things would have gone if we _didn't_ have them."

She shakes her head and turns back to the blanket of lights below. "Have you ever been to the headquarters before?"

"Yeah, a couple times."

"Just a couple times?"

"Yep. You know, the bo—our _ex-_ boss didn't... exactly hold us in the highest regards, as you can probably imagine. He kind of preferred, well, not having to look at us."

A burst of wind picks up the balloon, taking them higher into the night sky. It slips into the neck of her hoodie too and she shivers a little: "Is it far from here?"

"Kind of, yeah. It's probably gonna take at least all of tomorrow to get there."

She tries not to think about what that could mean for Ash. "And what's it like? I mean, the place?"

"Uhh, huge-ass building in the middle of nowhere. Really well guarded. Kinda screams 'come any closer and you'll be shot on sight'."

"Would there be any way to get inside without being seen?"

James sighs. "Yeah, sure, if you can turn invisible or teleport or something like that," he says. "Did you listen to the 'really well guarded' part? There's sentinels at every entrance. You need to identify yourself in order to be let it. It's where the—where Giovanni spends most of his time, so it goes without saying that he doesn't want just anyone to be able to sneak in under his nose."

Misty presses her lips together and doesn't retort. "So hey, if you've changed your mind, there's still plenty of time to turn this thing around and get you back home," he continues. "I sure wouldn't blame you. All you gotta do is say it and—"

"I didn't change my mind," she cuts him off. She breathes: her throat is drier than paper still, squeezed tight. "I'll think of something. Looks like I'm gonna be stuck up here with you for a while, yeah? I'll—" a hitch. "I'll figure something out."

His turn now not to say anything, and for a bit they go on in silence, the only sounds the steady roar of the burner and the wind whistling through the ropes. Below the city keeps unraveling, less bright now that they've left behind the center and are flying over the outskirts. "What does Giovanni do to his prisoners?" she asks after a while. Her lips feel numb: she tells herself it's the cold. James is silent for a second. Then shakes his head.

"Nah. Ain't answering this one. Next question?"

She turns to shoot him an annoyed glare. "I can take it."

"I'm sure. No, really, I mean it." He shows her his palms, seemingly alarmed by her stance; then leans back onto the basket. "But you don't need to, alright? There's nothing you can do about it right now, and I'm pretty sure you've got enough stuff to worry about already. It's not gonna do any good to anyone to torture yourself thinking about that as well." He shrugs. "Besides, your friend's not just any prisoner. Pretty sure it's in Giovanni's best interest to keep him alive and with all of his body parts attached and working."

She considers. "That's... not exceptionally comforting, you know."

"You asked," he reminds her. She sighs and turns back around, pulling her hoodie tight around herself. "Hey," he says after a couple moments, "Are you sure you don't wanna stop in Pewter City and pick up your other friend first? Two people might not be an army but it's still better than one, I guess."

"Uh-uh." She keeps her eyes on the swaying lights. "He'd try to stop me, I'm sure. And I don't want to—risk his life as well."

"'Kay. Anyone else, then? Surely there's plenty of people out there who care enough about the kid to join you on your crazy mission if you asked."

"I said no," she insists, even though a tremble's set at the bottom of her chest somewhere and her words come out wavery as well, all crumpled together at odd places. "I'm not going to put anyone else in danger. Just me is enough."

She can hear him let out a sigh. "Yeah," he says. "Listen, kid, it's really brave and noble, what you're doing. I mean wanting to do it all by yourself. But if you die or—or get yourself captured and thrown in a cell somewhere you won't help your friend."

The lights have gone a little swimmy too. She keeps staring, though, trying not to blink, and manages a shrug. "Guess I'll just have to avoid dying or getting captured then."

"Clearly," James groans. But he doesn't add anything else and they go on, cutting silently through the night. After a while the city's barely a twinkle in the dark, the size of her palm; then not even that. She closes her eyes and listens as the wind howls around the balloon, stronger, stronger.

***

After what can't be longer than a couple hours James's back to fiddling with the burner and the balloon begins to lose height. "What are you doing?" she asks, turning to look at him.

"Landing," he says. She scowls.

"Yeah, I can see that. But why?"

Below them it's all trees, hardly distinguishable in the dark. James keeps lowering the flame. "We've got a few hideouts and storehouses here and there, me and the others," he answers. "Mostly to keep stuff. You know, costumes, weapons, all those things. And there's one—" he leans over the edge of the basket and squints down. Points: "—right there."

She follows the direction of his finger and after a second makes out a small rectangle half-hidden between the treetops. A roof. "And why are we stopping?"

"Just wanna pick up a couple things."

"What things?"

He doesn't answer. Moments later the balloon's scraping against the branches and the basket's hit the forest bed with a thud. "Wait there. I'll be back in a minute," he tells her as he throws one leg over the edge; then pauses and turns back again. "And keep the gun at hand. You never know. Just try not to shoot me when I get back, 'kay?"

She's not left with much of a choice, so she slides one hand into her backpack and closes it around the handle of the gun and waits, watching as her breath fogs shakily into the air. Listening, all of her senses alert and tingly. But she hears nothing save from the familiar rustlings and hootings of the forest at night, and he's back after a handful of minutes as promised, stumbling and cursing under his breath. He's got a sack under each arm and hauls both at her feet, one after the other: "Some more food," he says, "and something that might come in handy later."

He doesn't say more and they leave again, with more scraping noises as they rise back up over the treetops. Soon the small roof's gone from sight, like the city before it, and below it's all a sweep of trees once again, still and silent.

***

The sack with the pokéballs makes a rattling noise as he tosses it on Giovanni's desk. Unrushed, the man slides a paper knife along the fold of an envelope and then glances down at it: "Ah," he comments, "I see the job went well."

"Yes sir," Ash nods. Giovanni's eyes study him once more.

"Did you encounter any difficulties?"

He swallows. The lab they broke into should have been empty and it wasn't: the moment he let himself in through the window his eyes met those of a researcher working late and for a second she just stared at him, and her eyes were brown and they were huge and she wasn't very old and maybe she wasn't even a researcher, maybe she was just a student or something, and then she tried to run for help and he reached for the pokéballs at his belt and he was so _stupid_ , wasn't he, to hope he'd never have to do that again—

"Nothing I couldn't easily handle," he answers. Giovanni keeps watching him.

"You look aggravated," he comments. He sets the paper knife down and for a moment Ash's glance lingers on it, on the blade maybe sharp enough to cut through skin if thrust with enough force and in the right place. But there's the men still, and Giovanni's Persian, looking lazily up at him from behind the desk. Maybe he'd have enough time to close his fingers around the handle. Maybe to plunge it, too, or to attempt. But then Persian would be on him and the men next, and if the one blow he could maybe-manage wasn't fatal he'd have busted his only chance. He takes his eyes off.

"I'm just tired."

The man gives a "hm" and shifts through the papers inside the envelope before directing his attention back to him. "I know you don't particularly enjoy your duties," he says. Ash shrugs.

"I don't have to enjoy them."

"I'm not finished. I know you don't particularly enjoy your duties," Giovanni reprises, "but if you continue to do well that won't always be your place. As you already know I started out as a simple grunt too, many years ago. Then eventually I was promoted to executive, and now," he lies back into his armchair a little, his lips stretching into an eloquent grin. "The same might still apply to you one day, if you continue to not disappoint me. I'm willing to forgive your past mistakes now that you seem to have come to your senses."

Ash swallows again and says nothing. Giovanni's glance still holds a glint of mistrust, a guarded anticipation.

"Do you want that?" he asks him. He takes a gravelly breath.

"Yes," he says. And then, though it feels like spit: "Father."

The man's eyebrows shoot up a bit. "That's a new one," he comments after a second. "I don't recall you ever calling me that before."

Ash holds his stare and again doesn't speak. The man lets a couple moments pass; then tips his head and returns to his papers. "Very well. You're dismissed. Escort him back to his room."

"Can I—ask you one thing first?"

Giovanni looks back up and signals for the men to wait. He breathes in again.

"Did you know I was in Viridian City? Is that why you were there?"

Giovanni looks somewhat amused by his question. "In all earnest, I did not," he answers. "I knew where you _weren't_ : at your house nor at any of your friends' places. I was in Viridian to take care of some unrelated matters, so you can imagine my surprise when I walked into my office to find you there. Perhaps it was meant to be."

Ash blinks a little. He wasn't expecting him to admit to not knowing something. He wasn't expecting him to _not know_ something, to be honest.

"Perhaps," he says with a slight shrug. One of the men's gloved hand closes around his elbow, steering him towards the door.

***

In the morning they're flying over trees still, now north of Celadon City. In the distance she can see the pale shape of Mt. Moon, shrouded by fog. Daisy's probably realized that she's gone by now.

"Where are we going exactly?" she asks at some point. The wind blows into her hair, pushing it on her face like a curtain.

"To the mountain area in the northern part of the region," James answers. "That's where the main base is. Kinda hard to find."

She purses her lips. Below them roll greens and yellows and oranges; the brown of a dirt patch or a path here and there. A shiny silvery ribbon: a creek. "Giovanni," she says after a while, not taking her eyes off. "What's he like?"

James appears to think about it. "He's, well, a lot of things. What do you want to know?"

"If—" The words jumble together a little in her mind. She takes a breath. "If Ash hadn't told you that he's his father, would you ever have guessed it?"

"Um. No, that's—no. No, definitely no. Can't think of a single thing they have in common. Um, they both have dark hair? That's it. Plenty of people do, though."

She turns. "So they're nothing alike? I mean their personality. Aren't they similar at all?"

"Nah." James rubs his chin. "I mean, I might not know your friend super well, and I've certainly never been the boss's confidant, but from what I know of both? Nah. Your friend's a good kid. A little stupid maybe. Sorry. But hell, I've seen him jump in the way of something extremely dangerous to defend his pokémon or you or some random stranger so many times that it's a true wonder he even lived long enough for Giovanni to kidnap him and fake his death—"

"Tell me about it."

He leans back against the basket. "Yeah, well," he says. "Giovanni, he's pretty much as far from that as you can get. Would sacrifice anyone if it served his purpose. Save for his Persian, maybe, but I wouldn't bet money on it. He'd definitely never move a finger to help someone unless he could gain something from it, and even then he'd make someone else do it. They're like day and night if you ask me. Which, why were you asking, anyway?"

Misty sighs and turns back around. "Somehow he's got Ash convinced that he's just like him."

"Yeah, he would. He's good at getting into your head. Can't even imagine what a whole year of him doing that could do to someone."

She keeps staring down in silence for a bit. "How did he get to where he is?"

"Huh?"

"I mean—Giovanni, I know he wasn't always the head of the team. Do you know how he joined it? Maybe there was a time when—he didn't want to and he was forced, like—"

She stops. Behind her James sighs. "I dunno, kid, sorry. He was already there when we joined. But listen... Giovanni's the kind of person who enjoys sitting back and watching others suffer, okay? Pretty sure you don't just _turn_ like that if you ain't already got something wrong with your head from the start. Yeah, he might have done a fine job at manipulating your friend, but I don't think he's going to turn into... Giovanni 2.0 if that's what you're worrying about."

Misty thinks of the way Ash flinched away from her after she saw him hurt someone. Of the tremble in his hands: thinks of the photo she kept on her mirror, of that smile as he pulled her towards who-knows-what, bright, bright. Of a glimmer of that same light still afire at the bottom of his eyes, not gone, not done with. She shakes her head.

"I'm not worried about that."

They fly over a burnt barren patch; over a steep spread of rocks, all peaks and spires, over more green. After a while she closes her eyes, listening to the wind and the spluttering of the burner. She drives her fingernails into the straw of the basket and remembers something she said once, almost in another lifetime: _Ash is never really alone. He's got me._

"Hey, can I ask you one thing now?" comes James' voice. She opens her eyes, slightly startled, and glances at him.

"Yeah?"

James smushes his lips together. "Huh, you and the kid—I mean, are you two...?"

It takes a moment for his half-babbled question to sink in. She turns away again, a heat crawling up to her cheeks: "No."

"No?"

" _No._ "

"Not even a little bit? Because we, me and the others, I mean back before this all happened, we kinda had a bet placed on whether—"

She hides her face against her palm. "Oh _Arceus._ Shut up."

"So it's a yes?"

She doesn't answer. After a few moment she takes her hand off and breathes, her face still burning a little. She can feel James' eyes still on her back and keeps hers obstinately on the line of clouds along the horizon, biting down on the inside of her cheek until it hurts. The sun's hanging higher into the sky. She wonders what Daisy is doing.

They don't talk for a while.

***

(She saved him from the sea that once. Found him and dragged him back to shore, in the water so cold she could barely breathe or move. She'll find him this once, too. She has to. She _has to._

 _Ash is never really alone. He's got me._ )

***

They're still nowhere close to their destination come dusk, and the forest's only just starting to give way to the barrening foothills of the mountains. "You said we'd be there by now," she accuses him, tense, though she knows it's not exactly so. James sighs a bit.

"I said probably," he retorts, beginning to lower the flame. She stares.

"Why are we stopping?"

"I need to sleep, kid, or else I'm gonna crash us into one of these rocks. And you need sleep too. Better stop here while there's still some trees to hide us."

"I'm fine," she grumbles, but that's not entirely true either: her eyes are starting to feel heavy, filled with sand. She rubs them with her fingertips and hears a soft scoff.

"Yeah, sure. Hear me out, if I were about to attempt something as stupid as trying to infiltrate into the secret base of a giant criminal organization on my own I'd like to think I'd at least have the sense to do it on a few hours of sleep."

The basket thuds against the ground, raising a puff of dust. James steps out and secures the balloon; gathers a few branches to lit a small fire. They sit across from each other and eat more canned food while the sky turns a deep veined purple. After he tells her that she can sleep first if she wants, and he'll stand watch and wake her up in a few hour so they can switch places: "There should be a blanket in there somewhere. Yep, that one."

So she pulls the raggedy blanket around herself and for a while stares up at the sky, at its thickening darkness and its blooming stars. Sleep doesn't come easily despite the weariness still weighing on her bones, her mind spinning too quickly for that: she thinks of her sister, wondering how she reacted to finding her bed empty and her note under the door, wondering if she did what she asked and trusted her to come back alive. She thinks of what expects her tomorrow and her stomach is a stone in her belly, heavy and cold. She thinks of him.

 _Hold on. Please, you stupid idiot._ Above the stars twinkle against the dark. _I'll get you out of there. I don't know how yet but I will._

Her eyes drift closed and she sleeps, finally. She doesn't dream.

***

It takes another few hours of flight before the headquarters come into sight. At first it's just a mirror glint among the rocks, and James rummages again into one of the sacks at their feet and hands her a pair of binoculars: "There, look."

She looks. They're still too far away to see very clearly, but she can still make out the mountain peaks giving way to a flatter terrain and at its center a tall, large steel building glaring in the sun. She swallows, her throat suddenly tight. Around it it's just nothingness, no roads, no other buildings, nothing that could make a good hiding place save for the sparser rocky spires. "Best if we stop here and continue on foot," James says after a couple minutes. "This thing ain't hard to spot. If we can see them it won't be long before they can see us."

They land again. This time he deflates the balloon, after securing the basket. She keeps looking through the binoculars as he does: she can see a bit more now, a cluster of communication antennae at the top and the unmistakable red shape of an R looming over what must be the entrance. Her breath hitches a little. James hauls one of the sacks to the ground.

"So," he wants to know, "your plan?"

Misty presses her lips together. She watches for a few moments still; then lowers the binoculars and stares at the glinting metal square, stares, until the sunglare burns into her eyes. "What if—" she starts, then stops and swallows again, her mouth drier than the rocky landscape around them. "What if you snuck me in pretending I'm a prisoner? I know I'm asking a lot," she quickly adds, before he gets a chance to answer. "You'd just have to get me inside. You can leave then. I'll—I'll figure out what I'm going to do next once I'm there."

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, no," he says. "But not because of how much you're asking. Hello? I can't really walk inside freely either at this point. I've been carrying you kids around for, what, 'bout a week now? If they've been watching your gym they've seen us coming and going too. They know we're with you. The moment I identify myself as agent James Rochester you can bet Giovanni's gonna be alerted."

Her teeth sink into her lip. She hadn't really stopped to consider the extent to which her actions would affect him, or Jessie or Meowth, and "I'm sorry," comes out of her now, her glance falling to the dirt at her feet. James shrugs.

"For what?"

"For— _this_." She gestures to their surroundings, shaking her head. "I was thinking—that once you got me here you could just... leave, and that'd be it. But you can't really do that anymore, can you? I mean, even if you do leave—the three of you are going to be in just as much danger as the rest of us. Maybe worse since you betrayed Giovanni."

Her eyes sting a little. _There was some guy who tried to betray the team once while I was there,_ she remembers Ash telling her. She remembers the rest, too, and kicks her foot to the ground, not looking up. He clicks his tongue.

"Come on, kid, now's not the time for regrets. And honestly," he exhales a slight huff of a nervous laugh, "if we really didn't want to help ya don't you think we would have taken the first chance to bail out? I brought you all the way here, I knew what I was getting into. Consider it payback for all the times we pestered you for Pikachu if you want."

She says nothing. "Now," James picks up, "I take you're still short of anything resembling a plan, yeah? Let's at least—" he crouches down to the sack at his feet "—try to stand out a bit less while you think about it."

He hands her a bundle of black fabric. "It's Jessie's. We had 'em in case we needed to disguise ourselves as regular grunts. It'll be a little big on you, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess."

She unfolds it to find herself staring at a Team Rocket uniform. For a few seconds she just stares at it, the muscles in her jaw tightening; then sighs.

"Turn."

James complies. She takes off her hoodie and the rest of her clothes and quickly slips into the uniform, shivering a bit: the fabric sags around her chest and hips, indeed at least a couple sizes too large. She straightens the creases under her palms as best as she can and buckles the belt and pulls on the gloves, and the boots he fished out of the sack next, tucking her socks into the tips to make them fit. James waits, not-so-patiently whistling through his teeth. She closes her eyes and lets out another sigh.

"You can look."

He does. For a moment he studies her, his lips pursed: "You make a decent grunt," he decides then. "A little scrawny, maybe. Wait—"

"That's not really a compliment, you know," she grumbles as he bends again over the sack. He hands her a beret.

"The last touch. Now, if you'll do me the same courtesy..."

He begins to peel off his shirt before she has the time to. She blinks and spins on her heels, her face slightly afire: "What are you _doing_?!"

"Changing into something more situation-appropriate, like you just did."

"You don't have to come. I can do it alone."

"Come on, you didn't really think I'd let you try to get in there all by yourself, did you? Like you'd last five minutes."

She doesn't retort. Her eyes have fallen back on the building and her throat's again squeezed shut, her words stuck inside. She watches it for another few seconds, her mouth all dust; then takes a breath and undoes her ponytail, to tuck her hair under the beret. She reaches for her backpack and takes out the gun, and slips it into the back of her belt, pulling her shirt down to cover it. Her hands shake a little throughout.

"...Hey, kid," comes James' voice after a few moments. He's slipping on a pair of gray gloves, much like the ones she's wearing herself. "We can still go back if you want. Last chance."

Her insides are all crumpled tight, but she shakes her head. "No. I—I want to do it. I have to."

"As you wish," he sighs. He steps closer and picks up the binoculars she left on the ground. "If you want my advice, I'd wait till it's dark before doing anything. That way we'll have more chances to at least get closer without being seen."

Misty presses her lips together. "That's another six or seven hours for Giovanni to torture him."

"Yeah, well. Better than a lifetime because you got shot and died before even getting a good look at the place."

A gust of wind rises. James squints at the headquarters through the binoculars, his brow furrowing into a frown. "Can't tell how well guarded it is from here. But every other time I've been here there's been sentinels at every door."

"Do you think there's any way we could distract some of them and—"

There's a shrill sound and they both jump. It takes her a couple seconds to identify the source: the pokégear in her backpack, the one she got from Mrs. R. James exhales a breath as she pulls it out, bringing a hand to his chest.

" _Mew_ , kid, next time please turn that off. Wait, is that...?"

"Yeah." She bites her lip. "Crap. Do I answer? She—kinda told me not to do anything stupid."

He sighs. "Figures. Yeah, I'd answer. Worst case scenario she's gonna be real pissed, but it's not like she can do anything about it at this point. And maybe she's got something important to tell you."

She braces herself. Then flips the device open, remembering after a second to yank the beret off her head.

"Where are you, stupid girl?!" sure enough blares from the speakers before the image's even come into focus. Misty flinches: Mrs. R's face is all a scowl when the static clears, her eyes molten iron behind the lens of her glasses. She bites her lip again.

"I'm," she breathes, "in front of the Team Rocket headquarters."

The woman raises a hand to her forehead. "And to think I told you—and you!" She takes the hand off and her eyes run to James. "She's a child, I suppose one can only expect so much, but you! I thought you had at least an ounce of sense in that head of yours, but evidently I was wrong."

"Yeah, huh," James rubs the back of his neck. "She... had some really compelling arguments—"

Mrs. R presses her face into her palm again. "How did you know I wasn't at the gym anymore?" Misty asks. She earns another glare.

"What do you think? Your friend called Jessie, who called me—"

"...Dammit, I told Daisy not to tell him anything—"

"—because apparently it's now my job to clean up after whatever mess you kids make." The woman takes a deep breath. "Alright, alright. Tell me no one's seen you yet at least."

"We just got here."

"Oh, good. Now listen to me. You will both get back on that stupid balloon and return to Cerulean City. Immediately."

Misty closes her eyes. Breathes, again, in and out. "I won't."

"You're not thinking straight, girl. You cannot succeed with this. You will get yourself imprisoned or killed, and probably that knucklehead there with you as well. You need to get—"

"I won't!" she stops her. "And you can't make me. I'll get in there and find Ash. I don't care what you think of it."

"You will _die_ if you try," the woman insists. "And if you don't you'll wish you had. James, please, get her back on that balloon. Use force if you must."

"Try and I'll break your bones," Misty warns him. She turns back to the screen then; and rolls the words around on her tongue, careful, weighing them.

"Your contact," she says finally. "The—the one inside the base. The one who gave you the info about the search parties and all that. Could he let us in?"

Mrs. R blinks slowly. "Have you been listening to a single word of what I said? Give me one—just _one_ good reason why I should aid you in cutting your life short."

"Because I will do it." Her voice falters a little. She tries to steady it, keeping her eyes fixed into the woman's. "I will do it with or without your help. You can't do anything to stop me. But with your help maybe—I'll have a slightly bigger chance to make it out alive."

There's a silence. Wind rises again, blowing tendrils of hair on her face. "James," the woman pleads. "Please."

"Yeah, I kinda... like my bones," he says. "Sorry."

On the small screen the woman's hand rises again to her temples. Presses. "Wait there," she says next, a powerless wrath vibrating under her words. "Listen to me on this at least. Do no move a _muscle_ until I call back."

A brief flashing sparkle and the screen goes dark. "...Wow," James comments after a second. "Nicely played, kid, you got us a way in. I take it back, you're too smart to be a grunt."

She doesn't reply. She closes the pokégear and sets it down atop her backpack. Her stomach is in knots: she sits down on the ground and curls up around it, waiting, her fingers digging into the fabric of Jessie's uniform. Her knuckles turn white. In the distance the headquarters building is still glaring in the sun.

***

**(** _**"My contact will pick you up in an hour with a supply van,"** _ **Mrs. R tells them.)**

James taps her elbow and points: there's a dust cloud coming towards them, too far away still to see anything else. She jumps to her feet all the same, her heart suddenly in her throat, bringing her hand to her back to check that the gun is still there. Next to her James rises more slowly and gets a last look through the binoculars before setting them down.

"Stay behind me, 'kay? Just for now," he says. He keeps one hand on the pokéballs at his belt, his lips pursed. Misty stares at the cloud and her pulse is a drum, so loud it almost drowns out the engine's roar.

She makes out the shape of a black van next. Then the splashes of red at its sides.

 **(** _**"He will ask for a password. It's—"** _ **)**

"Sunflower," James tells the man at the wheel. He's young, with a short brown beard peppering his jaw and broad shoulders under a black uniform matching the ones they're wearing. He nods to the back of the van:

"Get in."

They do. It's packed full with bags of rice and jerky and she has to press her back to the flank to let the doors close, the handle of the gun digging into her spine. Then they're in the dark and the engine coughs under their feet and seconds later they're moving, bumping over every ridge and furrow of the uneven terrain; and maybe it's just because of that that her stomach is crumpled so tight and her knees feel like gelatin. Her palms are slippery under her gloves.

"Hey—once we're inside," James says. She can hear him lick his lips, tense. "If anyone says anything to us, you keep your mouth shut and let me speak, fine? If you blow our cover we're done."

She scowls in his general direction. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you don't know the place and you ain't got any training! So shut up and let me do the talking unless you want someone to notice."

He's right, probably, and she forces herself to swallow down her resentment. Her throat feels like sand still. "Fine."

The van hits a hole in the ground, slamming her shoulder blades against the wall. "Great," James sighs. "And don't act weird. There's sentinels and security cams 'round every corner, so just pretend like you know your business and walk. Once we're in we should be able to move around pretty freely as long as they believe we're two of them, but if we raise suspicions it's over."

They turn to the left. The van slows down: there's the muffled sound of a shutter closing. The blade of sunlight filtering from under the doors turns into the dimmer glow of artificial light.

 **(** _**"He'll get you inside and then opt out of the operation. I'll have no further responsibility in this."** _ **)**

"Thanks, mate," James says to the driver as they get off, adjusting the beret on his head. The man keeps his eyes on the wall.

"I never saw you."

Misty looks around. They're in what seems to be a large storage room, filled with rows and rows of shelves of food and supplies stretching all the way to the beamed ceiling. Her footsteps echo a little, followed by the clang of James sliding the van door closed, and her breath catches in her throat and comes out in shaky puffs: they're inside. There's no going back now, no changing her mind, and she squeezes her hands into fists and tries desperately to push back the panic swelling in her gut. James stops next to her.

"You alright, kid? Hope you didn't have a last-minute change of heart. It's a little too late for that at this point, I'm afraid."

"No, I'm—" Her hand runs again to the gun. "I'm fine. I'm alright."

She says it a couple more times in her mind, to be sure. Then turns to look at him. "Where would they keep a prisoner?"

He ponders about it for a moment. Nods his chin to the rows of shelves next. "Start walking. I don't see cameras in here, but if there are we'll draw less attention if we move," he says, then answers as they go: "There's cells in the undergrounds, I think."

"You think?"

"Yeah. Never actually seen 'em. It's more the sort of thing that gets whispered about, you know? Screw this one up and you'll get thrown in the undergrounds."

She swallows. "Can you get me there?"

"Only one way to find out."

***

Her heart's a rabbit's run in her temples as they make their way through a sterile maze of corridors. "Just keep walking," James tells her in a breath as she half-freezes hearing footsteps; and the man who turns the corner passes them without giving them a second look. The blank eyes of the security cameras follow them around with a slight whirring noise.

"Do you actually know where we're going?" she whispers after a while. More footsteps: a man and a woman in black come from around another corner and again her insides go to ice, but once again they cross paths without incidents. He waits until they're gone.

"Yeah, well, kind of."

"Kind of?"

"Keep your voice down. I told ya, I haven been here all that often. I'm trying to orient myself."

Misty bites the inside of her cheek, listening as their own steps echo along the halls. "When we find him—how do we get him out?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Asking the big questions there. I dunno, kid. First let's figure out where they're keeping him."

They come to an elevator door after a few more twists and turns, and "There, that way," James rejoices under his breath, heading towards it. His thumb hits the call button. The floor numbers at the top flash on, each accompanied by a soft _ding_.

The moment the doors open she comes eye to eye with a tall woman in a gray uniform. For a second there's silence, bright and cold like a blade. Then James nods his head.

"Ma'am," he says, stepping aside to let her pass. The woman nods back almost imperceptibly and walks past them, followed by the clicking of her heels against the marble floor. James quickly nudges her into the elevator.

"Phew," he exhales as the doors close again. "An officer, judging by the uniform. You don't wanna mess with those. Hey, looks like you do make a convincing grunt. Who'd have thought."

Misty leans back against the wall, her knees all wobbly. "Now what?"

He studies the keypad for a couple seconds and pushes another button. "Now let's hope this is actually the right way."

The elevator rattles and starts descending, and she allows herself a couple last shaky intakes of breath before righting herself, her fingers tightening back into fists. A few moments still and they hit the lower level. The doors part with a hiss.

They're faced with another stretch of corridor and at the end of it a man stands at attention by another door, watchful, arms stiff at his sides. Misty's stomach lurches a bit. James throws her a swift look as he steps out: _walk,_ it says. _Let me speak._

She complies. The lights are dimmer than above, flickery as they walk under the neon tubes. A row of monitors lines one of the walls; she only dares to give the screens a passing glance, but she still glimpses the grainy, black and white image of bars under her pale-faced reflection. Ahead of her James stops and clears his voice.

"We've got orders to question a prisoner."

The man looks at them and Misty sees the bulk of his muscles under the uniform, sees the gun sticking out of the holster at his belt and for a second she's sure he'll see straight through their stupid disguises and reach for it—wonders if she'd be able to grab hers just as fast. But he nods then, and presses for them a button on the wall. The door opens right away, revealing another elevator.

They step in. Another hiss and once again they go down, and her pulse hikes to a furious nauseating throb. _It's too easy,_ the voice at the back of her mind nags her; _too easy, something's got to be wrong._ James takes a nervous breath.

"Listen, kid," he whispers. "If your friend's there—you keep it together and don't do anything for now, alright? Even if he's hurt or something, I don't care. We'll probably be watched, you seen those screens up there? We need to figure out how to get him out without drawing attention first of all."

She nods.

( _too easy too easy too—_ )

The elevator hits the ground again. Another slight _ding_ and the doors slide open.

The smell hits her before anything: strikes her face like a slap and her stomach turns over, its contents threatening to climb their way back up her throat. The stench of stale air and under that of blood, of sweat; of pain. She never thought pain could smell of something but this, this has got to be it. Only after a few moments she takes in the darkness, too, and how the light coming from inside the elevator pours into a puddle at their feet and then stops, barely outlining the shape of metal bars. Her eyes water without so much as a warning.

 _He kept me locked in a cell,_ she remembers Ash saying.

_I held on for... I dunno, maybe a month._

"I can see why this place gets the bad rap it gets," says James. He finds a switch on the wall and flips it on and more neon tubes light up one after the other, illuminating a long corridor flanked by bars at both sides. "Well, let's find out if your friend's here."

It takes her a few seconds to convince her legs to move. She blinks back her tears as best as she can and follows, her nails pressing into her palms through the gloves. Some of the cells are empty. Some aren't, but the prisoners don't look at them or shrink away at the sound of their footsteps, and for some there's the rattling of chains and she can't—she _can't_. She stops, her chest full of a dense swelling ache. James notices after a couple steps and turns to look at her.

"Kid? I know this is rough, but—"

"No, I—I—" She closes her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe. She can feel them hot. "...fine. I'm fine."

Ash didn't get the luxury of backing out. He didn't get to decide whether he was strong enough to take it all.

They go on. She looks into each of the cells and none of the prisoners are him, none of the scarred, wasting bodies are his and she doesn't know what she's hoping for each time she turns her eyes towards the next. But he's still not there when they come to the end of the corridor and she stops again, staring at the wall in front of them like she could will it out of existence; turning to look back into the last empty cell like she could somehow have missed him. She only finds herself looking at another musty wall.

 _Probably,_ the voice reminds her. Her teeth sink into her lip.

"Looks like we came down here for nothing," says James. She shakes her head.

"Where else could he be? Is there some other place where they keep prisoners?"

"I dunno. Maybe Giovanni wants his special prisoner in some special cell or something."

"Or maybe he's not even here."

He stares. "Wait—what? You mean you're not sure?"

"I—" She bites her lip harder. "Thought so."

"You _thought_ so?"

Her stomach is a heavy stone. "Mrs. R told us that Giovanni called back the tracking parties he'd sent out to look for him. She— _we_ thought it meant that they found him."

Not daring to look at him, she takes a couple steps towards the cell and closes her fingers around one of the bars. It's cold, even through the fabric of her glove: the whole place is. On the other side she sees rust stains on the floor, lingering deep into the crevices between tiles. Her chin quivers.

( _His men would beat me. ... Every day, until I did what he wanted._ )

James lets out a long sigh. "Well, no use crying over spilled milk now," he says after a moment. "We're here. Might as well continue looking. Maybe he really is somewhere else. I don't see many other reasons why Giovanni would stop looking."

She gulps down the tearful lump in her throat and forces herself to take her eyes off. _You'll find him,_ Daisy told her; _I know_ you. She turns:

"So—where do we look next?"

Before he can answer there's the _ding_ of the elevator reaching the floor and they both freeze, startled. The door opens: the man from before steps out, one hand raised to his hip. Misty's heart jumps in her throat.

"What are you two really doing down here?" he questions with a frown. His voice echoes between the narrow walls. "I've been watching you. You haven't been questioning any prisoners."

She swallows and quickly looks to James, but he's silent as well, the muscles in his jaw tightened and sharp. The man steps forward.

"I'm gonna ask one more time, in case you didn't hear. I'm going to need you to identify yourselves and clarify your intents." His hand lingers for a moment on the weapon at his belt—skips it and stops on the next object. A radio, she realizes with cold, distinct clarity as he unhooks it. "Or perhaps I can check directly with the boss if you've really been given that order. Hm?"

She holds her breath. Slowly, slowly, she reaches for the gun.

***

This time Giovanni sets down his papers more readily when he walks into his office. "Come closer," he says; his hand beckons him, in a flicker of gemstones and gold.

He obeys. Giovanni laces his fingers and sets his chin atop them, and for a long moment he studies him, not talking. "I'm still unclear as to what prompted your sudden change of heart," he tells him finally. Ash gives a slight shrug. His right shoulder protests a little, sore from a scuffle during last night's job that added a couple more bruises to his collection.

"I told you. I've figured out this is my place."

"Yes, yes. I heard you," the man nods. "What I want to know is _why_. You clearly didn't feel that way when you ran away from me. What's changed?"

"I—" He takes a breath. He's not stupid: he expected him to not be satisfied with what he told him. Yet his fingers twitch nervously, and he has to ball them into fists to still them. "I saw my friends, and my—and my mother. Until I did I still didn't want to believe everything you told me. But the more time I spent with them, the more—I saw it was all true." He breathes in again. "I'm not like them. I don't belong there. And they wouldn't want me either, if they knew—what I am really. They'd be disgusted just like you always told me. I saw you were always right. That's what's changed."

The words are heavy in his mouth. And heavier still the bitter, lingering hunch that maybe they're not lies, that they would really think that if they saw how easily he slipped back into the role Giovanni crafted for him; that they would be right. But he needs to hold onto that facade with all of the strength he's got if he wants a last chance to prove that it's not all he is.

Giovanni's eyes keep studying him. He straightens his back then, and once again pulls open the drawer of his desk to pick out a folder. He lays it in front of him:

"Open it."

He complies, again. As he lifts the cover his throat fills with sand: lying in front of his eyes are the photos he saw two nights ago, of Misty and Brock and Pikachu. "What's this?" he manages to ask, his voice a hoarse rasp of a sound.

Giovanni lies back into his armchair. "The missions I've been sending you on for the past two nights," he says. "They were a test. I didn't especially need those pokémon, or those badges. What I really wanted was to see if you really were willing to do anything I asked from you again, and I'm quite pleased to say that so far you've proved yourself. I wish there was more time for that, but it seems that we're going to have to speed things up a little."

He shakes his head. "What things? What does this have to do with my friends?"

"I was getting there." Persian nudges Giovanni's leg and he lowers one hand to stroke his fur. "You see, I'd love to be able to say that now that you're back everything is in its rightful place, but it's not quite so. You've shaken things up some by letting your friends and your mother know that you aren't dead. And unfortunately it looks like your friends are shaping up to be a nuisance. Nothing that can't be taken care of, of course, but, well," a grin flashes on his lips "someone's going to have to do that."

"You said you wouldn't do anything to them." He can feel the panic blistering under his voice, a hand wrenching, wrenching. "You said—"

"I said I wouldn't unless they forced me to, if my memory serves me right. As I believe it does," Giovanni stops him. He touches his fingertips to one of the photos, a blurry night shot of the trio's balloon taking flight. "Your friend, the Cerulean City gym leader, has been sighted while leaving the gym overnight. Accompanied by one of my agents no less." He glances up at him. "Looking for you, no doubt. Stubborn, isn't she? And to think I would have been willing to let things slide had she not persevered. Her whereabouts aren't known at the moment, but she'll be located soon and after that, well, someone is going to have to take care of that before the situation gets out of hand. As you'll surely understand."

He only manages to shake his head again. The hand squeezes; claws. "You said you wouldn't do it."

Giovanni's grin widens.

"And _I_ won't, in fact." He slides the folder towards him. " _You_ will."


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: The lyrics at the end are from "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng.  
> I can't believe I finally got to write scenes I'd been mulling over for nearly a year. Thank you for sticking with this story until now! I hope this won't disappoint. Or not too much, at least.  
> Remember that there's still an epilogue left! Some things will be wrapped up there.

Ash stares down at the pictures with ice in his veins. At the one Giovanni touched his fingertips to: the Meowth-shaped balloon rising into the night sky, the blurry silhouette of two people visible aboard the basket. The roof of the Cerulean City gym in the background. The man's words spin furiously in his head.

_Accompanied by one of my agents no less. ... Stubborn, isn't she? Someone is going to have to take care of that._

He takes a half-step back. "You want me to—what, _kill_ her? No. No, you can't—you can't ask me this. I won't."

"Well, that's a bit disappointing. But I did expect some resistance," says Giovanni. His fingers drum once along the edge of the folder, slowly. "I understand it's still early for you to see with clarity how _friends,_ or even _family,_ "—from his lips they sound like mud—"cannot hold any absolute value to people like you and me. Ideally it would have taken a longer process for you to realize it. But I'm afraid the chain of events you've set in motion with your little act of rebellion needs to be stopped now."

"I won't do it," Ash insists. There's not a drop of air in the room. Not one that'll reach his chest, at least. "Anything else. But not this. Please."

His heart is a roar in his ears. Anything, is all he can think, anything but this, this: this was the exact thing he came back to avoid. "Begging's never gotten you anything," the man reminds him. His hand leaves the folder, lacing back with the other atop the polished wood of his desk. "Not to mention, it's quite pointless in our case. The situation unfortunately needs to be taken care of."

"Please," he says again anyway. It tears out of him almost like a sob. "Maybe she's not looking for me, maybe she's just—what can she do anyway? It's not like she could find me here."

"Another thing you'll need to learn: don't leave any variables to chance if it can be avoided. I was not expecting you and your friends to be able to elude my surveillance for a while after your escape, yet you did. It's quite an easy mistake to make when you think in terms of 'well, what _could_ happen, anyway?', something I myself have had to take note of on occasions. She could be planning to expose us for all we know. Or she could involve others. Ultimately I find that the best way to deal with a problem is to do so before it gets the chance to become a much bigger one."

He forces himself to take his eyes off the photos and look up. The man tilts his head a little in consideration.

"Perhaps I'll even let you spare her any pain."

Bile crawls up Ash's throat. He looks back to the folder, the panicked grip on his insides twisting, twisting: time. Time. That's what he needs, more time, enough for Giovanni to trust him; that's what he came back for. "I know it might seem quite a brutal solution at first glance," the man's voice cuts through the droning of his thoughts. "But trust me when I tell you it's the best one. It'll help you detach yourself from the affections you're still holding onto. And it'll serve as a warning for the rest of the people you've involved in this, hopefully keeping them in check. Quite a small sacrifice all things considered, you'll surely concur. Unless you haven't been sincere to me, but that's not the case, no?"

Ash's mind and pulse pound a desperate race. In one of the pictures clipped to the page Misty is walking towards the gym with Brock at her side, her shoulders wrapped into his jacket. He can see a bit of her face, the lines of her profile. The leather of Giovanni's chair gives a slight sighing creak.

"So," he wants to know. "Your answer? Are you up to the task?"

He has to do it. He has to do it now, no matter what'll happen to him next. His eyes frantically scan the surface of the desk, looking for something that could make a weapon; but there's nothing, not even the paper knife. He should have tried when he had the chance, Arceus, why was he so _stupid?_ The man's glance presses down on him, stifling, expectant.

"You won't save her life by refusing," he reminds him. "Someone else will take care of it if you don't. Besides, _you_ sealed her fate when you let her know about all this. Might as well finish what you started."

Ash's stomach sinks: a stone. Time. He needs time. He needs—

"Can I—" He swallows. His voice is a raspy squeezed out sound. "At least—think about it? I'll never question any of your orders again, I swear it. Just this once. Please."

There's silence for a few seconds. Then a "hm", and the man reaches for the folder and closes it. "I suppose I can grant you this one," he says setting it aside. "After all it is still a little early to ask something of this caliber of you. You have one hour to get used to the idea. After that I'll be expecting an answer."

Ash staggers backwards another shaky half-step, feeling his insides turn to water. One hour. One hour, that's it, that's all he's got. "You're dismissed now," Giovanni adds, and the two men waiting by the door readily step towards him at a nod of his head. Gloved fingers lock around his elbow.

"Did I ever tell you how I came to be the head of Team Rocket?" Giovanni's voice yet comes again as they're about to leave the room, like an afterthought. Ash turns: the man isn't looking at him, his glance lowered back to his papers. His Persian is, though, he can see its eyes like pin pricks in the shadow under his desk. He musters a shrug.

"You told me you were promoted to executive and eventually took command."

Giovanni scribbles a signature on the page. "Yes, yes, that I recall. But did I ever tell you _how?_ "

He shakes his head. The corners of the man's lips curl into an almost imperceptible smirk.

"My mother was a great head to the organization in her time. Without her Team Rocket wouldn't be what it is today, nor would I be the man I am. And I did have love for her, no doubt. But there are sacrifices to be made if you truly want to sit at the top of the world." A pause. "You see, my mother, she was getting old. She was beginning to lack a certain... boldness, we might say. Caution is good when you're threading certain waters, but there's such a thing as too much of it, and her excessive yearn to preserve her stability and fortune was starting to hamper the team's potentialities. I couldn't bear to watch that."

"Did you kill her?" Ash asks. Giovanni doesn't answer. Just nods again for the men to escort him outside.

***

(Minutes later, behind the latched door of his room-cell, Ash staggers to the toilet and empties the contents of his stomach in the bowl. _You sealed her fate when you let her know about all this,_ Giovanni's voice echoes through his head: _might as well finish what you started_. He presses his face into his fists hard enough to hurt, to feel the bruises flare up into silver needles. One hour. There has to be something he can do with it. Something. _Something._ )

***

James show his palms to the man, all of his ten fingers spread. "...Hey, hey," he says, backing off ever so slightly. "Let's all calm down a bit, okay? I'm sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Did I say _question_ a prisoner? Must have been a slip of the tongue, what I meant was, huh—check! We got orders to check if a prisoner was in condition to speak, you see, so that someone else could come and question him later."

"Right." The man takes another step, his hand still around the radio: Misty's fingers brush the gun through the fabric of her uniform. She hooks her thumb under the hem of her shirt, slower still. Her heart is in her throat. "I'm going to need your IDs. Now."

"Sure, sure, our IDs." James reaches into his pocket. He makes a big show of rummaging through it, too. "Just a sec. I'm sure I have mine here somewhere—"

Another step. The weapon half-slips from her grasp, crooked at the wrong angle. "Hey," James tells her right as she finally manages to close her fingers around it. She jumps. "Can you take a look at your feet? I think I might have dropped it right there."

"Don't move," warns the man, darting his eyes in her direction. James is quick.

"Weezing, go!" he shouts grabbing the pokéball from his belt. "Use smokescreen!"

Red flashes and moments later a cloud of thick black smoke is pouring into the corridor. Before she's even had the time to fully realize what's happening James' hand's seized her arm: "Hold your breath and run." He shoves her in the direction of the elevator. "Go, go!"

They run. Towards the cloud and through it, and the smoke slips down her throat even as she presses her face into the crook of her elbow, dense and rancid. Her eyes fill with tears. The man's a vague hunched shape ahead of them, the sound of his hacking bouncing between the walls; and James is careful to slam his shoulder right into his as they pass him—careful to step right onto the radio as it thuds to the ground. It gives way with a crunch. Then they're out of the cloud and James scrambles to the elevator's call button, repeatedly hitting his palm against it until the door opens.

She half-collapses inside, her chest on fire. "Weezing, return!" she hears him call before slamming the buttons again. She squints through her tears at the lingering smoke and amongst it something stirs—something moves. A silhouette, staggering, closer. Closer—

The door shuts. The elevator starts moving, and "...Bet you're glad you brought me along now," James says breathlessly after a second. He coughs. "Man, I feel bad for the prisoners. Hey, what were you going to do with that?"

She follows his glance to the gun still in her grasp. "I don't know," is all that comes out of her, along with a hint of nervous not-quite-laughter. "What do you think?"

She tucks it back in place with shaky hands. They reach the floor as she smooths her shirt down over it, and the elevator opens again on the stretch of corridor flanked by screens and its flickery neon lights. "Wait," James tells her. "Hold the door. It'll buy us another few seconds before our friend can catch up."

He hurries to hit the call button at the other end. The numbers at the top light up: he nods for her to follow. On the screens the man's pounding against the elevator, tendrils of dark smoke still hanging in the air around him. "Now what?" she urges as the door closes. Her heart is a throb in her temples, loud, loud. "They got all that on the cameras. They'll know we did it!"

"Yeah, but hopefully no one else's watched them yet. And our friend down there's the only one who got a good look at our faces. So," James tugs the brim of his beret over his eyes, "keep your head down and walk fast. Let's try to blend in and put some distance between him and us before he gets the chance to fill everyone in."

"Where are we going?"

He purses his lips for a moment. "Back to the storage room," he decides. The elevator comes to a halt. "I didn't see cameras. Hopefully it'll give us some time to plan our next move."

***

A few hurried twists and turns later they're back in front of the wide metal door they came in through. James lets it swing closed behind them; and back between the tall rows of shelves stacked full with stuff of all sorts slows his pace some, carefully studying the ceiling for cameras. He seems not to spot any, and he pauses at the intersection of two rows and breathes out a bit:

"Alright," he exhales. "Here we are. So, just to recap: your friend might be in here somewhere but you're not sure and we have no idea where, and after that stunt someone's probably gonna be looking for us very soon if they aren't already. Did I miss anything?"

"...I don't think."

"Great. Fantastic. Everything is perfectly under control. Keep calm."

"I'm calm."

"Yeah, I meant myself." He lets his shoulders fall; then turns on his heels to look at her and continues to walk backwards, lacing his fingers tightly behind the nape of his neck. "We better think fast, kid."

Misty breathes. The adrenaline of their narrow escape is slipping off and with it gone all they saw down in the cells comes rushing back in waves: the darkness and the prisoners' bodies like scatters of ribs and elbows and most of all the smell, that terrible gut-twisting _smell_. Her knees feel weak all of a sudden. "Did you see that place?"

"The cells? Yeah. Kinda hard not to."

She shakes her head a little. The echo of their footsteps bounces softly between the shelves. "Can you even imagine—being locked down there for days? Weeks?" A lump fills her throat. "A month?"

"Yeah, I'd rather not," James sighs. "And you shouldn't either. It's not helping right now, nuh-uh, it's the opposite of helping. Besides, if we don't come up with something quick I'm afraid we won't need to imagine."

He bumps into a shelf and stops, leaning back against it. It gives a metallic groan. She shuts her eyes for a moment, trying to force those images back down at the bottom of her mind: "You're right. So—what do we do? Where else could they be keeping him?"

"What do you think I've been doing until now? I'm trying to think about it."

"This place is huge. There has to be somewhere else."

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth. Behind him are glass containers packed with pokéballs and he drops his head back onto one of them, running his eyes over the beams on the ceiling as if hoping to find some inspiration up there. "What else is in here?" she presses. "Other than the cells and this storage? What else do you know?"

"Umm, there's Giovanni's office upstairs. A buncha more offices for the other big fishes in here. Living quarters, both Giovanni's personal ones and the ones for his officers and henchmen. Kitchens. Probably more storages." He shrugs. "I dunno what else. Training rooms. Maybe some labs, I know Giovanni's got some scientists working for him on who knows what sort of secret projects."

"Nothing like—I don't know, some extra safe cell where he'd keep important prisoners, or something?"

"Oh, yeah! How could I forget!" James rolls his eyes at the ceiling. "If I knew of something like that don't you think maybe I'd have mentioned it?"

Misty closes her hands into fists. Tight, tighter still. "What about Mrs. R's contact? We could—find him and convince him to help us again somehow—"

She realizes how unlikely that sounds before it's even left her lips entirely. James seems to be of the same opinion. "We don't even have a name to go off, no way we'd find him before someone finds _us._ Not to mention he didn't seem all that keen on wanting to see us ever again."

Her fingers tingle. _Maybe he's not even here,_ the voice nags again; but she swallows and shoves it back down. "Giovanni—he'd want to keep him close, wouldn't he? What better way to keep him completely under his control?"

"I guess?"

"So he could be somewhere around his office or his quarters?"

James ponders over it for a moment. "I suppose. But it's gonna be hard to get there unnoticed. Our friend's likely reported us by now. Chances are there's a squad searching the building for us or something."

"But we could _try,_ right?"

He hesitates for another couple seconds. Then sighs again, loudly: "Mew, this is so going to end bad. But yeah, guess at this point that's just as risky as anything else, including staying here." He rights himself. "So might as well—"

The sudden rumbling sound of the shutter door opening stops him. The splutter of an engine next: they both freeze in place. The rumble comes again, cutting away the sudden bright wash of sunlight that had just poured in, and the engine slows and stops with a cough. Silence; then doors sliding open and slamming. The thuds and grunts of something heavy being unloaded, punctuated halfway through by an "ow, my foot".

"...be satisfied this time, I hope," comes a voice, muffled through the rows of shelves. A man's voice. He's met with a sneer:

"Satisfied? The boss? Surely you don't know him very well."

Footsteps. James brings a finger to his lips, the lines of his jaw hard. Misty's palms clam under the gloves. The steps grow closer. Reach their level—

—move past.

The door creaks. "Wait," says the second voice. A woman's, tired and young sounding. "Let me drop these off. That damn Rhydon knocked them out in one hit. I'm going to need new ones, these are crap." A short pause. "I'll meet you upstairs."

Footsteps again. Closer, closer. Her breath stuck in her chest, Misty slides again her hand under her shirt and closes it on the gun. Closer. From around the corner a shadow stretches on the tiled floor. A shoulder comes into sight next, and with another stride the rest of the person attached to it, black uniform and a head of brown hair lowered towards something at her hip. Misty pulls the gun out.

"Don't move."

The woman looks up. She is young, maybe as young as her teens. She blinks at the weapon aimed at her face and her brow draws into a frown.

"...The hell?"

"Don't move," Misty says again. The words scrape along her throat, dry as dust. She remembers the safety and fumbles to flip it off, her fingers slippery through fabric and sweat. "Put your hands up."

She complies, frowning still. The right one spread; the left closed around two pokéballs. "The hell is your problem?" she questions. Misty points at the floor with the barrel.

"Drop them. Now."

"What, these?" The woman—no, the girl—glances at the two spheres in her palm. She tips her chin to the shelf behind them and its glass containers. "That's exactly what I was going to do, you know. Now if you'll stop waving that thing in my face and just let me—"

"I said drop them!"

The girl raises one eyebrow. Her eyes are blue. She opens her fingers and lets them rattle to the floor: "Happy now?"

"Yes," Misty stammers. Her breath comes in hitches. She swallows hard and looks the girl up and down: she's got a radio hooked to her belt, like the man down by the cells, and next to it two empty pokéball holders, but no weapons as far as she can see. James elbows her a little.

"What are you _doing?_ " he whispers through his teeth. Not quietly enough to keep the girl from hearing, it seems, and her quirked eyebrow arches further.

"Yep, just what I was wondering myself. Glad to know at least two of us are on the same page. Now care to tell me what's your problem exactly?"

"Shut up," Misty cuts her off. An idea spins into shape in her racing mind and she seizes it, holds tight. "Do you know about the boss's son?"

"...What, that kid they say the boss brought in?" The girl shrugs. "I've heard about it, nothing more. Why?"

She swallows again. The gun shakes slightly in her grasp. "Do you know where he is?"

Another shrug. "Think," Misty urges her, and the girl does so half-heartedly, tossing her eyes towards the ceiling.

"What do I know? Maybe in the trainees' quarters if you want me to take a guess. I heard the boss was grooming him to inherit the keys to the kingdom or something."

Misty presses her lips together. She glances back at James, who throws his hands up in a helpless _maybe_. Before she can ask more a crackle of static rises from the radio at the girl's belt.

"All available units," a voice comes through, spreading in a metallic echo across the room. "Two suspects on the loose within the base after resisting arrest. Male in his late twenties, early thirties; female in her teens. Repeat, male in his late twenties, early thirties, female in her teens. Over."

The silence that closes back around them is colder than a blade. The girl tilts her head a bit; frowns deeper. Looks her head to toe and does the same with James, and a spark of something resembling amusement glints at the corners of her eyes.

"That's you two, isn't it?" she says. "You're the two suspects they're looking for."

"Don't _move,_ " Misty repeats a third time, almost desperately. "Don't touch the radio. Try and I'll shoot. I'm not kidding."

"Mew, relax! I couldn't care less what you did or even what's your business with the boss's son. The only thing I want right now is to get upstairs and take a really long shower, fine?"

She forces herself to breathe. Her heart pounds frantically in her temples, her throat, a roll of thunder. She looks again to James: "Could you get us there? To the trainees' quarters?"

"Yeah, maybe, but I dunno if going off some stranger girl's guess is worth the candle with _all available units_ on the lookout for us!" He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "This is it, we're done. Yep, we're screwed."

Think. _Think._ She shuts her eyes for a second, the lines of the shelves etched into her eyelids. Looks at their few options like at a scatter of puzzle pieces. "Those pokéballs," she blurts out suddenly, nodding her head to the containers and to the maybe-hundreds of spheres inside. "Do they all have pokémon in them?"

The girl's eyebrow shoots up slightly again. "If you want worthless ones, sure."

"Why worthless?"

"Weak ones, disobeying ones, your pick. What are you, new or something?"

Ash's voice briefly bubbles up in her memory: _it's like they make them into things you can replace._ "Ones that get handed to recruits for training and throwaway missions, I guess," whispers James at her side, grim. "They catch and train 'em in bulks and if they prove below standards well, it's faster to just dispose of them and get new ones."

Her stomach turns. Still she tries to push back against the fist of nausea rising up her throat and digs her nails hard into the idea shaping up in her mind: "Do you think—you could draw me a map of how to get to the trainees' quarters?" she asks him. He blinks.

"...Maybe, but hello?" He gestures to himself. "I'm right here in case you forgot. What do you need a map for?"

She breathes. Tries to. Her lips are dry, prickling. "I need you to stay here," she says. "And I need you to give me a little time to get there. Then I need you to release all of those pokémon and cause as much chaos as you can, set something on fire, anything you can do. Use the confusion to get out and wait by the balloon. I'll find Ash and do the same."

Her words are met with a cramped silence. "...Come on, kid," James' voice comes faintly after a couple moments. "You can't be serious. Use your head, will you? You don't even know if he's really there. That's... hardly a chance in a million you'll actually find him and get out alive."

"I'm with him," the girl agrees. Misty darts her eyes back to her.

"No one asked _you,_ " she snaps. And to him: "What alternative do we have? They're looking for us. You heard that. We're out of time, how long do you think it'll be before someone thinks to check in here?!"

"Yeah, and how are you planning to get there _while they're looking for us?!_ "

She breathes in again, slowly. "They're looking for two people. If I go alone—I'll raise less suspicions than if we move together."

Her voice falters a bit. James presses his face into his palm, his fingers curling around a fistful of his hair. "Come on, there's got to be an alternative. There's always some alternative. We can try to find a way to get out and—I don't know, come back with a better plan or—"

"I'm not leaving," she cuts him short. It comes out like a sob, a thing all thorns tearing out of her chest. "I came all the way here, I'm not leaving until I find him. And you're not changing my mind, so can we stop wasting _time?!_ "

He's silent again. The gun shakes harder and she clamps her hands around it, trying to still it. She keeps staring at it, at the shiny end of the barrel: not at him, not at the girl. She can hear him draw a long, long breath.

"Okay, say—you get there and don't find him. What do you do then?"

"I'll figure it out."

He paces back and forth between the shelves, his hand still wrung into his hair. "What about—her?" He waves his other hand towards the girl. "Are you forgetting you just revealed your whole masterplan in front of someone who'll definitely report to the boss the second you look away?"

"Hey, I told you, I don't give a crap," she insists. "You could be planning his assassination for all I care. Whatever, man."

Misty closes her eyes. Keeps them like that for a moment. "Find something to tie her up."

"The hell? I told you I don't care!"

"Do it!"

James wails, but actually turns to inspect the shelves' contents. The girl glares at her. Her eyes are blue, she registers again; so blue and so hard, like stone under shallow water. She has to take hers off.

"I'm sorry. I have to do it. I can't risk."

"Yeah, fuck you."

James comes back with a length of electrical wire. "Alright, this should do," he sighs, stretching it around his palm to test it. "Sorry miss, I'm going to need your wrists."

She forces herself to look back up while he ties the girl's hands behind her back and to the side of the shelf because not looking would be easy. Her stomach is upside down still, a tight knot in her belly. Once he's done he pauses and sighs again, staring at the floor for a couple moments. "Are you really," he says, stressing the word as much as he can, "really, _really_ sure it's worth it, kid?"

Misty thinks again of the light she saw in Ash's eyes. Of that spark still not gone, not faded, still there for her to hold onto despite all the darkness and hurt he'd been through. _I won't let anything happen to him this time,_ she promised.

She lowers the gun and flips the safety back in place.

"I am."

***

He scribbles a map on a scrap torn from a bag of flour. Tosses it and starts over a couple times before getting something that looks sort of right: "...Okay, this should be it," he says, sliding it in her direction. He taps the pen to a spot on the page, next to where he drew a straight line. "You're gonna have to get past Giovanni's office to get there. No idea if he'll be in there or not, but be careful, 'kay?"

"Okay." She takes a slightly wavery breath. "What else?"

He explains the path in detail before handing her the map. She stares at it for a bit, trying to memorize every ink squiggle; then folds it in half and tucks it into her pocket. James gathers himself up from the floor and dusts off his knees. He walks to the pokéball containers and lays a hand against the glass.

"Just to make sure—you know half of these are going to end up killed, right?"

Misty swallows. "Why, what's going to happen to them if we leave them here?"

"...Fair point."

"At least maybe—this way some of them will manage to escape."

She stands as well. James lets out another sigh. "I'm giving you twenty minutes before I set about releasing them. That should be more than enough to get there."

"Okay." She bites the inside of her cheek, hard; her nails press through the gloves into her palms. "James?"

"Yeah?"

She breathes in again. "If—you get out and don't see me coming back, you—leave, okay? Don't come back to look for me. Get Jessie and Meowth and get very far from here. As far as you can."

He says nothing. She feels her eyes sting and doesn't dare to pick her glance from the floor. A moment, two, stretched heavy and full in the air between them.

"You got the gun, yeah?" His voice is hoarse. She nods. "Keep it at hand. And remember all I told you. If you need to shoot, wait till you have it up to your eye or you'll miss."

She swallows again and looks up. "Thank you. For—everything."

James shrugs her words off. She brushes the map in her pocket, checking that it's still there. She doesn't need to do the same for the gun, she can feel the weight of it against her back, but she does it anyway, her heart still a thunder in her ears. The girl watches them with contempt.

"You're totally going to get busted, whatever it is you're trying to do," she says. "I hope you realize it."

Misty ignores her. She turns one last time to James, who raises his eyebrows a little.

"Well. Hope the next time I see your face it's not on the news," he sighs. His face softens then. "Good luck, kid."

***

The wild pounding of her heart follows her along the hallways. She keeps her head down and focuses on her breath, trying to keep it from hitching in her chest: in her mind she repeats James' instruction over and over. The walls around her all look the same. She turns the corner and the collar of Jessie's uniform feels tight, so tight. She resists the impulse to tug at it; keeps her arms down at her sides. Listens.

Footsteps. They come from the opposite end of the corridor and for a second she nearly freezes, her insides a chunk of ice. But she balls her fists and forces herself to go on. From around the corner come two women, both dressed in black, and she feels their glances brush over her even with hers glued to the floor and a tremble sets its claws at the base of her spine. She holds her breath.

_(Two suspects on the loose within the base. Female in her teens.)_

Keep walking. Just keep walking. The two women pass her. Go on.

The cameras' watchful eyes follow her around. A couple more turns: ahead of her is the elevator door.

She presses the call button and waits, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end. It's empty. As soon ad the door closes behind her she staggers and leans her palm against the wall, feeling her knees suddenly about to buckle. A second; then she rights herself and pulls James' map from her pocket, and with fumbling fingers unfolds it and stares at the ink scribbles for another few seconds, making sure they're still impressed into her mind. Shoves it back in place as she hears the _ding_ of the elevator hitting the floor.

She looks up. The door opens.

***

When he hears the footsteps outside his door Ash's stomach turns into a stone. He presses his fists to his temples, a tremble of nausea rattling up his throat. The footsteps halt. The latch slides free.

The starker light from the corridor makes a rectangle on the floor. Two pairs of feet stop at its center, clad in black boots.

"The boss is expecting you."

He forces himself to stand.

***

The corridor she finds herself staring at looks different from the ones below. A few paintings dot the walls, and at the corner she spots the bright green splash of a potted plant. When she walks out of the elevator a carpet swallows the sound of her steps.

_The upper floor is where Giovanni's office is,_ James told her, tapping again his pen to the same spot on the page. She swallows and walks on.

Closed doors flank the corridor at both sides. Her eyes hitch for a second on a painting at her left, a view of a sumptuous villa in a sunny countryside, registering thick yellow brushstrokes and the wooden curls of the frame. She turns the corner.

"Watch your steps."

Her heart nearly jumps out of her chest. She stares at the R on the silver uniform of the man she nearly slammed into and for a second time stretches on thin and colorless, frozen. She doesn't know how she manages to swallow down the panic blocking her throat. How she remembers the way James addressed the woman in an uniform of the same color and brings herself to bow her head, forcing her voice out:

"Y-yes sir."

_An officer, judging by the uniform,_ James' voice echoes through her head. _You don't wanna mess with—_

"And speak up when you're addressing your superiors," the man says, gruff. Misty breathes.

"Yes sir." Louder this time. For another terrible moment the man's glance still doesn't let go. But he lifts it then and walks on, leaving her in the empty corridor with gelatin in place of her bones.

The camera above her head whirs. She picks her chin up. She can't falter, not now.

Giovanni's office should be after the next turn.

***

The door to Giovanni's office stands ahead of them. Ash's hands twitch again into fists, tight, tight enough to shake.

The muffled echo of their footsteps follows them.

***

When she reaches the corner her heart misses a beat.

She only sees him for a moment. Walking between two men three times as big as he is, one of them with his hand closed around his elbow. His head lowered; his shoulders stiff under the black uniform. A moment: then he's gone, swallowed by the only door along that stretch of corridor. Right where James pointed his pen to.

He doesn't look in her direction.

She presses her back to the wall, her heart so loud it drowns out any other sound.

***

The four walls of Giovanni's office close around him as the door shuts, suffocating like a cloud of smoke. The man glances up at him: sets aside the open envelope he's holding and with it Ash catches a silvery glint _—_ the paper knife. His stomach lurches. Giovanni crosses his fingers on his desk, looking at him with expectation.

"So," he wants to know. "Did you make good use of your time?"

Ash swallows. His throat is raw. The walls keep pressing down on him, squeezing his chest shut. "I—think I did."

The man arches his eyebrows. "Speak then. I'm all ears."

_(Someone else will take care of it if you don't.)_

"I'll do it," he says. It scrapes its way out of him like a cluster of claws. Giovanni's eyes widen slightly. For a second he just looks him up and down, like the readiness of his answer caught him somewhat off guard; then slowly the edges of his mouth fold into something that's not quite a grin, nor a smirk either. It spreads to his eyes in small wrinkles and it's not a grin, no—a smile. Or a grotesque, revolting imitation. He flicks a hand in the air. The stones of his rings catch the light.

"Come closer," he tells him. "I want to look at you."

The fingers around his elbow let go and he complies, his pulse a low crackling rumble in his ears. His glance falls on the paper knife at the corner of the desk and he steers it away and forces himself to look the man straight in the eyes. His eyes: they run over him again, gloatingly taking him in from head to toe. Ash's hands shake. He stops by the desk, close, close.

"I'm very glad to see you finally understand what's best for you," Giovanni says. Persian curls with a purr at his feet. "I knew you would eventually. Trust me, it won't always be as hard as you're finding it now. Now that you've stopped fighting me it will only get easier, you'll see. All you needed to do was stop opposing your true nature."

He reaches for the folder he showed him earlier and sets it in front of him. Ash swallows again and considers his chances: he'll die if he attempts now, no question. Persian will be on him in a second and if not it then the two men behind his back. But he has to. There's no alternative, he's out of time. Maybe a second will be enough, it has to be. Maybe his hand will be on the knife and at Giovanni's throat before Persian's claw slash his own. Doesn't matter what'll happen to him then.

"As for your friend, she has yet to be located," the man is saying. "We do have a rather solid lead, though. The balloon was last sighted flying over Celadon City, heading north. Not quite the smartest choice for a mean of transportation, don't you agree? She'll no doubt be tracked down within hours, days at most. Then she'll be brought here, and you'll do what needs to be done. Any questions?"

Do it. Do it. Yet his arms remain frozen at his sides, his hands closed into fists still. Tingling; numb. He shakes his head.

"Got it."

His heart pounds. _Do it,_ it repeats with every throb, _do it do it DO IT._ He looks at the knife. At the light that glimmers along the blade.

The radio at the belt of one of the men gives a crackle. Ash's breath stops. "All available units," a voice croaks metallic from the speaker. "Requesting immediate backup on floor one. We have... a situation. Over."

Silence falls back. Giovanni frowns. "Answer it," he commands. "I want to know what this _situation_ is about."

The man unhooks the radio from his hip. "Unit 202. What situation? Over."

"It appears that a number of pokémon set for disposal have somehow been released into the building. Repeat, requesting immediate backup. Over."

A muscle twitches in Giovanni's jaw. He takes a breath and forcefully blows it out: "Go," he says through his teeth. "And find whoever is responsible. I want them brought to me."

The men both hesitate. "...What about the boy, boss?"

He considers for a moment. "Leave him here. We still have some talking to do," he answers then. He looks at him, his lips curling back into a hint of that awful, sickening smile. "I believe we can finally trust each other. No?"

Ash only manages a slight nod. "Go," Giovanni says again and the two men turn to leave. Footsteps on the carpet. The hiss of the door closing. Silence.

A whistle fills Ash's ears. Giovanni's mouth moves; he can't make out the words. He won't have another occasion like this one. There's still Persian, but it'll have to be enough. Have to.

Doesn't matter what happens to him.

_(do it do it DO IT NOW DO IT)_

He's fast.

(He taught him that, after all.)

He lunges for the paper knife—closes his fingers around the handle. For a second he sees everything with bright slo-mo quality: sees the man's pupils contracting against the brown of his irises, the same color as his own. Smells the stingy sweet scent of his cologne.

_(what if I miss Arceus what if it doesn't work what if it's not sharp enough)_

He plunges the blade.

***

( _I didn't_ make _you capable of this_ , he told him once.)

***

The two men she saw disappear beyond the door with Ash rush back out and past her. More footsteps follow, and another two people in black dash in the same direction, barely giving her a glance despite that she's still standing aimlessly at the corner. She takes it as a signal that James did what she asked from him, and for a second she closes her eyes, silently thanking him and hoping that he'll actually manage to get out.

More grunts hurry from the other end of the corridor towards the elevator. No one else comes out of the door, though, and she stares at it with her insides in a knot, not knowing what to do. She wonders how long she might have before the confusion James created is brought back under control: ten minutes, twenty? Maybe even less? If she can't get to him before then it'll all be for nothing.

Another group of grunts rushes past her. One of them shoves her aside with a hasty "don't stand there". Her shoulder bumps against the wall; then they're gone, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet and by the corridor's turns. She turns back to the door: closed still. Her heart throbs.

***

He doesn't have the time to register whether the blow was successful. Seconds after the blade encounters the resistance of Giovanni's throat there's a furious hiss and Persian jumps at him, a projectile of claws and weight and anger. He loses the grasp on the knife and his back slams to the floor, squeezing all air out of his lungs in a strangled yelp. He sees the pokémon's fangs inches from his face and as he shuts his eyes and waits for the claws at his throat he only formulates one thought: _please let it have worked. Please please please let it—_

"Persian," comes Giovanni's voice. A gargling, chocking sound. " _A—a cuccia._ Down."

The pokémon's weight lifts from his chest. Ash snaps his eyes open and sits up, propping himself on his elbows: Giovanni is still sitting at the desk, the paper knife sticking out the side of his neck. His hand tries to reach for it, misses; his fingers claw at the air. Ash's heart slams against his ribs. The hand aims again for the knife and this time closes around it. "Y—you," the man's mouth articulates. Blood trickles down his collar. "You little—"

Ash recoils a little. Persian is still hissing at him, claws and fangs bared. "I'm not you," he manages to say, through the bellow whiff of his breath. "I'm not like you. My friends never doubted it for a second. I'll never be like you."

Giovanni stares at him. For a moment, two. Then a low hoarse laugh erupts from his throat, a sound like broken glass, like the screeching of nails. "And yet—look at what you just did," he says. "You couldn't have followed—in my—footsteps—more—accurately than this..."

He pries the knife out of his throat. Blood gushes out and he tries to stop it: the knife clatters against the desk and to the ground. "Ah, _d-dannazione,_ " he curses, more gurgle than word. Red runs down his hand, his rings; stains the cuff of his shirt. Trickles out of the corner of his mouth, too. He tries to say something else and fails to. His other hand reaches for Persian and he mouths the pokémon's name, almost desperately, almost like pleading.

"Per—"

Persian springs by his side. Giovanni's fingers close into his fur, hold onto it like to an anchor. He turns his glance back to him then, and for a few seconds still manages to look straight into his eyes, even as his chest heaves and more blood falls from his mouth and his nostrils. Ash's whole body feels like water. Giovanni looks at him, looks at him still. Then his breath dissolves into a heap of gargling, strangled noises and his head finally falls down on his neck, and the hand still trying to compress the wound with it, while the other contracts on the pokémon's fur. A tremble rattles it.

Silence. Only Persian's soft cries as he nuzzles the leg of its master, his hand limp now at his side. Ash's breath hitches. Something deep inside him trembles, clatters into a million pieces. His head rings.

He looks at Giovanni. Looks at Giovanni still sat on his chair, his head hanging like a broken mannequin's. Blood stains the front of his shirt and it's red, bright, real, not at all different from that of so many wounds of his own. He looks at it and his mind refuses to process it.

He blinks. He's gone. The man who tore him to pieces and crushed what was left under his heel is gone. He should feel—feel— _happy,_ shouldn't he?

_And yet look at what you just did._

He gathers his knees up to his chest. Curls up tight around them.

He can't move anymore.

***

She can hear the chaos coming from downstairs even from there. She sinks her teeth into her lip. For a few moments she lingers on her feet still. Then slides a hand to the handle of her gun, and with her stomach in a twist heads towards the door. She stops in front of it and listens, listens hard, trying to catch a glimpse of what's going on inside. She hears nothing.

The corridor is empty. _You'll find him,_ her sister told her. _I know you._

She gulps down a lump in her throat. Holding her breath, she presses her free hand to the button on the wall.

The door slides open quietly. She sees the man sitting at the desk first thing and nearly jumps: only after a second she notices the blood on his shirt, and the way his head hangs limp and lifeless.

She takes an uncertain step in, blinking. An angered hiss rises from behind the desk as the door closes and this time she does jump, her hand already about to pull out the gun; but the Persian curled at the man's feet only bares its teeth at her and doesn't leave his side. Misty's eyes scan the room. It's a moment before they fall on the crumpled heap on the floor.

Her chest gives a flutter.

"...Ash."

His shoulders go stiff. He turns slowly, like he's questioning if he really heard her voice, his eyes huge. There's bruises on his face—the yellowing one on his jaw that was already there when she saw him last and darker, fresher ones. For a handful of seconds he just stares at her, parting his lips to speak but not managing a sound.

"What are you doing here?" he asks finally. She lets lets her hand fall.

"What do you think? Looking for you!"

He shakes his head. Almost frantically, the rest of him still wound around his knees. "You need—you need to leave. You need to go. Now. You—"

"Not without you, for sure," she stops him. He turns away and shrinks from her, shaking his head still, his breath short almost-gasps. All of him is shaking, really. She takes a step; then another. Her eyes fall back on the man at the desk. A waxy hand dangles from the chair's armrest, garish rings on each bloodstained finger.

"Is that...?"

"Yes." A hoarse whisper. Misty's own breath catches in her throat a little.

"Did you—?"

Ash pulls his knees closer still. "Yes."

She swallows. Then balls her fists and decidedly steps another couple steps forward: "We need to go. Come on, we need to go now. I told James to release a bunch of pokémon downstairs, we can use the confusion to get out."

"You go. I can't."

"What are you talking about?!"

He says nothing. He's curled so tight that she can see his spine sticking out from his back, like a length of rope. She stares at him.

"Come on! What are you talking about? You've already been stupid enough to let them find you, now don't—"

"They didn't," he cuts her off. Talking to his kneecaps, mostly. She frowns.

"They didn't what?"

"They didn't _find me._ I came back here."

It takes a second for it to actually sink in.

"...You _what?!_ "

She spits the words at him like darts. She wants to hurt him: for the very first time since she found him at her door she actually wants to hurt him. She manages to, apparently, because his shoulders sink down another notch—she wouldn't have thought it physically possible. She forces herself to breathe. To still the furious, scalding white tremble rising from her middle.

"...Okay. I'll insult you later. It doesn't matter right now. We need to go, get up."

He still doesn't speak. Her fists clench tighter.

"Get up! What do you think is going to happen when someone comes in here and sees what you did?! They'll kill you!"

"Let 'em."

Less than a whisper now. She shakes her head. "...What the hell are you saying?"

A shrug. Almost imperceptible. "I deserve it."

Her turn now not to find any words. He draws a breath, hitching and unsteady: "Go away! They'll kill you too if they find you here."

The tremble stirs. She stomps to him and grabs him by the arm, trying to pull him to his feet. In her grasp he's all nerves, all sharp edges and tension. "I came here to look for you. And you're coming with me, like it or not! I don't _care_ whatever bullshit you've gotten into that stupid head of y—"

"Let go!" He pulls back. For a second he glares at her with something akin to fury; then wraps his arm back around himself and lowers his head. "Go away," he says again, almost desperately. "Please."

"Why?!" Her eyes burn. "Why on earth would I do that?!"

"I deserve it!" he says one more time. His fingers claw at his arm, digging deep. "He was—he was right. He was always right. Even as I did—" His eyes venture towards the man at the desk to skitter away immediately. "... _this._ Even as I did— I'm just like him. He was right after all."

She gives up trying to follow. "...I don't even care what you're talking about right now. Come on, get up."

Silence. She waits, for a moment, another. Then lets out a harsh breath.

"Okay. You know what? Fine." She sits down on the floor next to him and crosses her arms. "As you want."

Ash shoots her a panicking look. "What are you doing?!"

She shrugs. "You're staying? I'm staying too. So we'll both be here when someone comes from that door. Is that what you want?"

He stares in near-disbelief, his eyes wide. He shakes his head again: "No, you need—you need to go. They'll kill you. They'll kill you too if they find you here!"

She shrugs one more time. Her stomach is squeezed shut. Ash clamps his lips together and for a handful of cold, heavy seconds she wonders if he could really do that, if whatever Giovanni did to him could really have changed him enough that he would willingly let both of them die. His eyes run back to the desk; turn towards the door. She can almost see the thoughts colliding into his head.

He slams a frustrated fist against the floor and stands. Grabs her arm and yanks her to her feet too: " _Fine_ —get up, stupid."

He pulls her towards the door. Persian accompanies them with another angry hiss, but still refuses to leave its dead master's side. There's a small puddle of blood on the floor, tricked from the man's finger. Ash presses his palm to the wall. The door slides open, the corridor still empty on the other side.

He tugs her out of the room and looks around, his hand tight around her wrist. For a moment he hesitates, nearly frozen on the spot, then swallows visibly and heads fast in the direction of the elevator. They make it to the corner. Past it.

The lights go off. She stumbles and nearly slams into him and for a second they're in the dark. Then there's a buzz and a dimmer light comes on, washed out and reddish.

"What happened?"

"The power went off." He turns. His face is stretched taut in the red glow. "We can't use the elevator. This way. Quick!"

He pulls her to the other side. Back towards Giovanni's office and past it, and around a corner and another after that. Footsteps: he pushes her into a narrow turn and holds her there, hushing her. She can feel the wild run of his heart. Black silhouettes rush in and out of view in the corridor. He grabs her arm again as the steps fade and again starts walking, quick, head down.

He leads her to a twisting metal staircase and urges her along it. The steps rattle under their feet. She can hear the chaos louder now, a clutter of noises and voices and something else, a crackling roaring background sound under all else. At the bottom Ash stops, listens; yanks her wrist once more.

There's a different kind of light down here, oblique and flickering, but it's only after another turn puts them face to face with its source that she really takes it in.

Something is burning. James did his part well. There's smoke clogging the hall before them and beyond it the orange, sputtering flash of flames. Ash curses under his breath and turns around, his fingers still holding her arm tight, tight. From somewhere comes the thunder of gunshot. She cringes at the screeching that follows, squeezing her eyes shut for a second.

_I'm sorry._

More turns. More corridors, and more sudden u-turns at the sound of steps. The air is dense and heavy. A door, finally, and he lets her go just long enough to grab the push bar, leaning his entire weight against it. It swings free on another short corridor stretch and another door at its end. He rushes to open that one as well.

A shrill alarm sound pierces her ears the moment it clicks. She can see a blue slice of sky beyond. The rocky landscape surrounding the—

"It's him!"

She turns back to see two men in black coming towards them. Ash curses again and tries to sprint away, but one more is waiting on the other side and stops him in his tracks, ripping his grasp from her arm. Ash struggles, kicks; the man hits back. She tries to reach him and arms close around her waist.

She tries to pry them off. She manages to, almost—but as she tries to step away a hand claws at her shoulder and turns her around and a fist collides with her face, hard enough to throw her off balance. She hits the dusty ground harsh, the taste of blood in her mouth, her hair falling out of her beret. The man is on her in a second. She tries to roll onto her back and a gloved arm presses down on her throat.

Her right arm is trapped against her side. Gasping, she manages to twist it behind her back and grope for the gun in her belt. She grasps the handle. Finds the safety under her thumb and fumbles to flip it off.

Silver sparks cloud her vision. A muffled cry of pain: Ash's voice. Her heart threatening to explode her skull, she wedges her arm free. The man grabs the gun by the barrel—tries to wrestle it out of her hand.

She pulls the trigger.

Blood sprays warm on her face. A second; then the man's weight crashes down on her chest, crushing her. She turns her head to the left: through the sparks she sees Ash on the ground, the other two men kicking, kicking. She finds the man's shoulder. Manages to roll him onto his back.

She pulls herself to her knees. One of them sees her and leaves Ash to come towards her, a swaying black shape. She extends her arm:

_you need to wait till it's up to your eye_

she shoots again. Again. The man staggers and falls to his knees, a hand raised to his chest. Again.

He makes a noise falling in the dust, a dull faint thud. She turns the gun towards the other.

"Step away from him." Her voice is a hoarse scratching sound. "Step away or I'll shoot you too!"

The man steps back. The fire growls, the air pouring from the door hot and flickery. She keeps her aim on him.

"Go. _Now!_ "

He goes. Takes another few steps in the same way; turns to run. Ash groans faintly, curled around his stomach. He props an elbow on the ground and gathers himself up a little. Sits, trying to breathe.

His eyes find her.

She lowers the gun, slowly. She can feel the blood on her face. A bout of nausea crashes into her like a wave.

"Do I deserve to die too now?" she asks him, her voice coming from somewhere far away.

Ash blinks. "...What?"

"I just killed two people." It comes out of her chest almost hysterically, hitting her twice over as she hears it out loud. "I did something terrible as well. Does that make me a terrible person too? As bad as you? As bad as Giovanni?"

He stares. The fire roars, relentless. "Do I deserve to die too?" she asks again.

He hauls himself to his feet. His knees nearly buckle and he doubles over, pressing a hand to his ribs with a grunt. He looks back up after a moment.

She stands as well. "Answer me," she insists. The hand holding the gun shakes. "Do I deserve to die? Do I?"

"...You had to do that," he says. A whisper, barely. She shrugs.

"And so did you. So how is that different?"

He doesn't answer. Her voice rises, halfway between a sob and a growl: "How is that different? Come on, answer me! I deserve to die too now by your logic, don't I?"

He still says nothing. She closes in a step the distance between them and grabs his arm, forcing his hand on the gun. The barrel against her chest. "Go on, shoot me. If you deserve to die so do I. So shoot me and then shoot yourself if that's what you want."

He tries to pull back. "Stop it."

"Shoot me!" She digs her fingers into his wrist. "If you think you're as bad as Giovanni come on, prove it!"

"Stop it!"

" _Shoot me!_ You can't, can you?"

Ash stares at her. There's tears in his eyes, she realizes suddenly: since he knocked on her door she hasn't seen him cry once. He doesn't do it now either. He just lowers his head, his hand falling limp in her grasp.

"Stop it. Please." A trembling breath. "I can't."

The gun clatters to the ground between them. She lets his arm go. She wipes blood off her lips, hers or the man's, she's not sure.

"Come on. We need to go, now."

He nods. But as he tries to take a step he staggers again, his hand running back to his ribs. Burning orange light washes over his small frame.

She sighs and takes his arm again. Gently this time—as gently as she manages considering she's not at all sure if she'd rather hold him or punch him straight in the face. She places it around her shoulders.

"Here. Come on."

***

James' mouth falls open when he sees them come towards the balloon. He lowers the binoculars, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes.

"...Mew, it's actually you. And you found him! I can't believe it."

Ash sways a little, leaning against her. She glances back to the building. There's a column of smoke rising from one side, black against the open sky. She still doesn't see anyone following them, and for a second she just stares blinking, unable to believe it fully.

She helps Ash into the basket. James awkwardly offers a hand too, but he shrinks away from it, his eyes lowered still. He stumbles inside and curls up at the bottom, pulling his knees back to his chest. He doesn't look at either of them.

"Go," she tells James. "Quick."

He hurriedly turns the wheel on the burner. The flame flares up; the balloon starts rising. Soon the wind picks them up, sweeping them higher and away.

"Where am I taking you?" he asks after a few moments. "It's quite the trip back to Cerulean and you, um, both look pretty roughed up, no offense." He thinks for a moment. "Pewter City should be less than a day of flight from here. I can get you to the pokémon center there or—wait, your friend's in Pewter, right? Want me to take you to him?"

She looks at Ash, still carefully avoiding her glance. She shakes her head. "The pokémon center's fine."

She yanks the shirt of her uniform off herself and uses it to wipe the blood from her face. She tosses it in a ball at her feet then and looks back to the headquarters building once more, still there, still glaring in the lowering sun. As she watches something comes out of it with the smoke, something small and winged. She squints. They fly closer: Zubat. Her breath hitches for a second. At least some of them did manage to escape, after all.

***

_strange how you know inside me_

It's the first hours of the morning when they land behind the Pewter City pokémon center. Misty steadies him by his elbow as he lifts one leg over the edge, even if the pain has faded a bit by now and he's able to step out without staggering too much. He hears her take a breath.

"...Maybe it's best if you take that off before anyone sees us," she tells him, looking at his shirt and its red R. They haven't really spoken since leaving the headquarters. He nods and tugs it over his head, letting it fall into the basket. The gloves, too, and the beret. James kicks them into a corner as he shivers in the remaining short-sleeved undershirt.

"Go," he tells them. "I'll reach you. Just the time to secure this thing."

Misty thanks him and they go. Her hand lingers for a second near the small of his back, but she lowers it without touching him once she's made sure he can walk on his own. Her eyes keep turning towards him as they walk, he can feel them. But she says nothing.

She talks to the nurse Joy at the counter to get the keys to one of the rooms while he waits a few steps back. He follows her into the hallway, his eyes still on his feet. The keys click in the lock; she flips the switch on the wall. For a few seconds he just stands on the door, looking in, his glance hitching on every smallest insignificant detail like when he first found himself inside a real home after a year of captivity. The edges of the red curtains brushing the floor. The slight creases on one of the sheets.

He never considered that there might be an _after._

He walks to the nearest bed and sits, bringing a hand to his still-aching ribs. Misty closes the door and lets out a sigh.

"Let me see."

"I'm fine," he mumbles. She's not having it.

"Let me see." She reaches him and crouches, trying to lift the hem of his shirt. He stiffens. She sighs again. "Come on. I've already seen the scars."

He reluctantly lets her. Her fingers gently brush the bruises spreading on his skin, fading ones and fresher purple ones alike. "You should be seen by a doctor. There could be something broken." He flinches slightly at her touch. "We could ask nurse Joy to give you a look."

"They're not broken."

"You don't know that."

"I've had them broken before. They're not."

She says nothing. Her lip is split and swollen and she's got a bruise across her chin to go with it. He can't stand to see it, so he pulls his shirt from her hand and carefully lies down on the side that hurts less, facing the wall. There's silence for a few moments. Then he feels the mattress sink slightly as she sits.

"Why did you go back there?"

He swallows. His throat's tight. "To kill Giovanni," he says. She waits. "It was—the only thing I could do to try and keep you and the others safe from him."

She takes a long, long breath and lets it go. "And how does—how could that possibly make you just like him?"

He curls around himself a little. "He killed his own mother."

"Why?"

A shrug. "To take control of Team Rocket."

"How is that the same thing?"

"He said it was."

"Well that was some bullshit."

He doesn't retort. The back of his eyes burns. Misty is silent for a moment again. "What you did was stupid," she tells him then, and he sinks his head a bit further between his shoulders, awaiting the rest. "It was stupid because you thought I wouldn't come looking for you, and it was stupid _and_ selfish because you didn't leave us with a choice. Did you even _think_ about what it would be like for me, for Pikachu, for Brock, for your mother when we'd tell her, to wake up and find you gone again and have no idea what happened to you, _again?_ It was—the stupidest thing I've ever seen you do and if you weren't already covered in bruises I'd punch you myself. But—" She breathes again, trying to still her voice. "It was also one of the most—stupidly selfless things I've ever seen you—no, _anyone_ do. You went back to a place where you were... beaten and starved and Arceus knows what else all because you wanted to protect us. You were ready to let yourself die. If you're a bad person I don't think there's a single good person in this world, Ash."

A sob rises from his chest. Dry, sudden, like a rip. Misty's hand hovers over his shoulder. Stays there for a second like she's wondering if he'll flinch away from her touch once again. Then closes around it, slowly. He tenses a little at first, he can't help it, but his muscles relax then and another sob tumbles out of him, and another after that.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Her hand stays. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The mattress wobbles as she lies down. He stares at the wall for a bit, tears filling his vision. Then reaches for her wrist and pulls her arm around himself. He half-expects her to pull back, but she doesn't. She just holds him, her body warm against his.

He hasn't cried in so long. It's painful; he'd forgotten how much. It comes out of him like a flood and she holds him all the while, her hand stroking his arm. He sobs until he can't breathe and then some more, his chest all a twisted cramp. Behind his eyelids he sees the paper knife sticking out of Giovanni's neck.

"He made me—" He forces himself to suck in a breath, all squeezed and hitching. "—hurt people. Steal from them. And—and—punish them the way—the way they'd punish me if I didn't do what he wanted."

She waits.

He tells her everything. About all the people he took from, all the ones he hurt in the process. About the times he was the one to hold the whip, too, and he keeps expecting her to let go and turn away from him, to be disgusted just like Giovanni always said; but she doesn't do any of that. She takes her arm off once and his heart stops, but it's only to wipe her own eyes. By the time he's done talking there's pale rectangles of sunlight on the wall.

"I had to look at their faces as I hurt them," he adds. "He wouldn't—he wouldn't let me look away. I had to see—the way they looked at me. The same way I looked at _him._ " He stops for a second, his chest overflowing with an old scabbed-over pain. "But if I refused they'd—they'd just beat me again. Over and over and over until I couldn't—sometimes it was until I passed out. But most of the time it was just—until I _wished_ I could pass out but I just didn't, and I just—I had to lie there for days. And he'd keep me without food, sometimes water too. It was so dark all the time. And I couldn't—I just couldn't—"

His voice breaks into sobs again. Misty's hand follows the curve of his shoulder. "I've seen the cells," she says, her voice wavery as well.

"You have?"

"I was looking for you."

He sniffles. "I kept thinking—those men who'd do that to me. I did the same things to others so—what makes me any different? Maybe they were like me once."

She's silent for a bit. "Maybe," she whispers then. "Maybe some of them were forced to do awful things too once. But I don't know them. I don't _care_ about them. It's not them I went to look for." Her fingers rub his arm. "I care about you. I came to look for _you._ And I'd do it again if I had to because—because _I know you_. I know you're not and you'll never be a bad person, even if you were forced to do bad things. You didn't deserve any of what he did to you. You never did."

He turns her words over and over in his mind, holds them, almost wanting to find that she's wrong. Almost trying to _will_ her to be wrong. "Say it," she adds. "Please."

_It's not your fault,_ he remembers telling her, deep down so desperately wanting it to be true for himself as well.

"I—" It catches in his throat in a heavy lump. He swallows; tries again. "I—I didn't deserve it."

It feels like tearing something out of himself, a piece of twisted rusty iron stuck deep into his stomach and left there to poison his flesh for so long he'd forgotten it was even there. It leaves behind a bleeding, gaping wound, at the same time immensely more painful and so, so relieving. "I'm sorry you had to do that," comes out of him next. He hears her let out another sigh.

"I know." Her arm stiffens slightly. "I'm sorry I had to do that too. And don't think I'm not mad at you, because I am." She doesn't sound very mad right now, though. "But you didn't _make_ me do it. You were extremely stupid, but you didn't force me to do anything. And I think—I think I'll be okay eventually. Not right now. I don't even know how I feel about it right now and I don't want—I don't want to think about it _._ But I've survived worse. I'll try to survive this too."

Ash sniffles a bit again. She breathes. "But I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"You need to try as well. Please. I need you to do this for me."

His vision clouds back up. "Do you really still think I can?"

"I don't _think_. I know." She pauses for a second, as if finding the right words. "And it's not just me. Pikachu, Brock, everyone else. They know it too."

He turns into her hug. She tucks her chin into his hair, and with his face against her chest he sobs some more, now mostly in exhausted, leftover hiccups. Her hand runs down his back, over his scars, trailing gently over the bits that were once so badly hurt.

"He's gone," she tells him. He can feel the vibration of her voice. "He can't hurt you anymore. He can never hurt you again." And only hearing her say it the realization hits him, leaving him breathless.

He's gone. He's _gone._

Misty holds him tight. His bruised ribs protest some, but it doesn't matter. She keeps stroking his back; and maybe at one point she lays a kiss on his hair. He's not sure. He just wants her to never let go.

"Do you think—we can go home now?" he asks after a bit, the question mark at the end curling in a silent _please_ on his lips.

He can feel her nod.

_strange how I fit into you_

_there's a distance erased with the greatest of ease_

_strange how you fit into me_

_a gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs_

_..._

_and of course I forgive..._


	15. Epilogue

"I need to call Brock," she tells him when his sobs have finally quieted to nothing and the rising and falling of his back under her arm has been a calm, steady rhythm for a while. She traces the length of his spine one more time, her fingers bumping over the ridges of his scars. "And my sister."

"Right now?" he protests. She lets out a small sigh.

"I think so. I promised Brock I wouldn't do anything stupid and then ran away overnight." She tries to throw him a glance. "Like a certain someone."

She gives his shoulder a squeeze and untangles herself from their hug. The room is wrapped in the glow of the still-earlish morning, the shadows smudged and soft. Her own eyes still a bit puffy from crying, she finds her backpack where she carelessly dropped it as they walked in, near the door. She looks down at herself.

"Turn," she says with another sigh as she stands. "I want to take this thing off. And hopefully never see it again."

She quickly strips off what's left of Jessie's uniform. As she opens the backpack she sees the pokégear, still tucked inside: she leaves it there. She slips back into her clothes, shorts, t-shirt, hoodie. That's a little better; she feels a little more like a person after. Still the thunder of gunshot echoes in her ears as she glances back at the black fabric in her hands, and with it the warm, wet feeling of the blood on her face, the man's weight crushing her chest. For a few moments she just stares at it, unable to get herself to do anything else.

"You okay?"

The question startles her. She turns: Ash is sitting on the edge of the bed, tentatively looking in her direction. She forces a breath down her throat.

"I will be," she answers. It needs to be true. She drops the uniform in a ball at her feet and nods her head to the door. "So, you coming?"

He bites his lip, lowering his eyes slightly. "Come on," she prods. "Brock wants to see you too, I'm sure. And he won't be more mad at you than he is at me."

He breathes in as well. Slowly, a small hitch of uncertainty along the way, his hands clutching fistfuls of the blanket. Then nods.

"Okay."

***

They find James in the hall, slumped across one of the couches with his arms behind his head and his ankles crossed over one armrest. "Hey kids," he greets them, glancing up as he hears the footsteps.

"Have you been here the whole time?" she questions. He shrugs.

"Figured you two'd want some privacy. Hey, by the way, so was it a yes in the end?"

It takes her a couple seconds to understand what he's talking about. Then she remembers the conversation they had on the balloon and her face catches fire a little. "Oh _Arceus—_ "

"What was a yes?" Ash asks, frowning. She closes her fists and marches towards the videophones on the wall.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Live with the mystery." She sits in front of one of the phones. "Both of you."

She lifts the receiver and there she pauses, a slight knot in her belly. Her fingers linger on the keypad. _Be very careful, okay?_ , she remembers Brock telling her. _I don't think I can deal with being worried out of my mind for both of you at once._ Ash reaches her, stopping a few steps back.

She dials the number.

The phone on the other side only rings a couple times before she hears the click of the receiver being picked up. On the screen Brock's face comes into view and immediately freezes: his mouth falls open. There's purple shadows under his eyes, she can't help noticing, and the stubble on his chin looks to be at least a couple days old. For a few moments he can only gape at her. "...Oh," he exhales then. "Oh Arceus. It's you. You're—you're alive."

"Hi, Brock," she tries. He looks at her still, his eyes falling on her bruised lip. He lifts them back to hers and shakes his head.

"Where are you? Are you—are you okay?"

"At the pokémon center in Pewter City. And yes, more or less."

"And...?"

The question hangs palpable in the air without daring to leave his mouth fully. Misty glances back at Ash. When he hesitates she rolls her eyes, and without further ceremony reaches for his arm and pulls him into the frame.

"...Hey Brock," he manages to say, after a brief awkward pause. Brock stares for a second. Then sits down hard and his hand rises to his forehead, pressing against his temples. She can see it shake.

"Arceus," he says again. "I should be furious with both of you but right now I'm just—I can't believe you're both alive. What happened? No, wait, don't tell me. I'm coming there. The pokémon center here in Pewter, you said? Five minutes and I'll be there. Don't leave, okay? Don't you _dare_ leave, I'm extremely serious."

He doesn't even wait for her to reply, just slams the phone down. She's left staring at the blank screen. "...Well," she lets out after a beat. "One down, I guess." She presses her fingers to the hook and sighs again, a bit. "Now my sister."

***

Brock scolds both of them thoroughly. First though he hugs her, and then turns to Ash and his hand stops mid-air for a clumsy, stretched moment, unsure but wanting, hoping. Ash tenses slightly; but pulls his lips then into the smallest of encouraging smiles, allowing the hand to fall on his shoulder in a pat.

"Do you think we're really—safe now?" she asks a good half an hour later, when they're done telling him everything. Her voice stumbles on that word as if meeting a foreign concept. It must feels the same to Brock as well, because for a while he just strokes his chin, his glance lost towards the floor.

"Well, Giovanni is—he's gone, that's for sure," he says finally, and at Ash's brow creases at that like he's still trying to wrap his mind around it. He shakes his head. "Who knows if... someone might want to avenge his death now, or something like that. Whatever might happen, though, Ash—please let us help, okay? Don't cut us out again." He sighs, but his tone softens at the same time. "I think Misty's more than abundantly proved that you're not going to get rid of us anyway, no matter how hard you try."

"I didn't want _that,_ " Ash grumbles. Brock watches him expectantly. He breathes, hugging his knees a little closer: "Fine. I won't."

Brock gives him a smile. "How are you feeling, anyway? I mean now, after... all that?"

He seems to consider the question. Actually consider it this once, not just shrug it off with a tacked-on _I'm fine_. "I dunno," he says in the end. His cheek works, like he's biting down at it. "I'm tired. And I miss Pikachu. And my—and my mom. Her too."

"You can see them soon," she tells him. Brock looks to her.

"And you?"

She's not really sure what to answer: she's spent the past night doing her best to avoid the thought. She can feel Ash's eyes turn towards her.

"I'll be okay," she says again to them both. For now it's what she can afford.

***

James insists on giving them a couple last rides. First to Cerulean City, to pick up Pikachu and Togepi: by the time they get off the balloon it's dark again, and the sign at the gym's door is again flipped to _CLOSED_ , only a few lit-up windows to dot the building. When she pushes the knob though she finds the door open still. She makes a mental note to reprimand Daisy for it, remembering how she warned her to be careful.

And speaking of Daisy: the moment they walk in she drops the mop she was holding and just about bowls into her, squeezing her in a hug so tight she almost can't breathe. Through the golden cloud of her hair she sees Pikachu fling himself from the hallway and into Ash's arms. "Don't ever, _ever_ do something like that again," her sister shrills into her ear. Her hands find her shoulders, pushing back to look at her. "Do you like, have any idea how worried I was when I found your letter?! And what happened to your _face?_ "

Misty blinks a bit. "...It's nothing. I'm fine," she assures her. "And I'm sorry. But you were right. I found him."

Daisy's eyes follow hers and only then she seems to fully register Ash's presence. The worried scowl fades from her face, replaced by something nearing disbelief. He stands back up from where he'd kneeled, still holding Pikachu.

"...Hi," he says, a little awkwardly. She looks him up and down.

"Wow. This is, like, really really weird," she comments after a couple moments, shaking her head. Then brings her hands to her hips and her brow draws back into a frown: "Well, I must tell you that I really hope you're not planning to disappear on my sister again. Two times was more than enough already."

For a second Ash stares back at her. "...Yeah, um. I wasn't planning to," he says then. Misty sighs.

"It's okay, Daisy. I've already scolded him enough. You can leave him alone."

Daisy takes her attention back to her. "Are you sure you're okay? Doesn't that hurt?"

"Only a little." She takes a breath. "Daisy, listen... I know I've already asked you a lot, but do you mind taking care of the gym for another few days? I'd like to accompany Ash back to Pallet."

The corners of Daisy's mouth take on a slight pained crease, but she nods. "Only if you promise me that I won't have to stay up at night wondering if you're alive anymore. But at least stop for tonight first, okay? All of you." She looks to Ash and Brock, then to the window. "Even your... weird friend, if he wants."

Misty nods back.

***

She finds her old sleeping bag and unrolls it on the floor. "You can have the bed," she tells Ash. He tries to protest, but gives in when she ignores him and slips into her sleeping bag anyway.

For a while after that she lies awake, listening to the occasional rustling of blankets as he turns. Minutes pass: an hour maybe, or two. Eventually sleep gets the best of him and his breathing evens into a quiet, regular rhythm. She's no less exhausted herself, but every time her eyes begin to drift closed she sees the man's face inches away from hers and jolts back awake, her heart in her throat. Togepi snuggles into her arms. But even holding it tight sleep doesn't come easier.

So she's awake when Ash's breath catches and hastens, at first only a little, then enough to sound like he's drowning. His blankets rustle again, harder. Misty sits up. Finds the switch of her nightlamp and flips it on.

In the dim light that fills the room he's a small trembling shape, his face a cramp, his brow glistening with sweat. His lips move as she watches him, forming silent words. "I won't," comes out of his throat suddenly, squeezed in between gasps, and Pikachu emerges from the sheets and looks at him in alarm. "I won't do it. Please. P—"

Misty's hand lingers mid-air a moment. Two. Then she closes it around his shoulder.

Ash's eyes fly open and she can feel his muscles tense at her touch, ready to react, to strike—but he sees her and freezes. She strokes his shoulder a bit.

"It's okay," she tells him. "It's just me. You don't have to do anything."

His breath unhitches. He rolls to his back and drops an arm over his sweaty forehead, managing a wavery approximation of a smile when Pikachu scurries up to him and licks his face. "Sorry," he says. His chest heaves. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's okay. I wasn't sleeping anyway."

He says nothing. She lets another few moments pass. Then asks, "Want me to keep you company for a bit?"

But he shakes his head. "I'm fine. Just another dream."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He doesn't quite look at her, though. "Sorry. Get back to sleep."

Her eyes linger on him for a second longer, but she lies back down into her sleeping bag and reaches for the switch to turn the light off. She hears the ruffle of the sheets as he turns, probably curling back up. For a while there's silence. He's awake, though: she can hear his breath still a little ragged, struggling to find its rhythm again. For a bit she stares at the ceiling in the dark.

"What were you dreaming?" she tries asking. Even from the tiniest shift at her left she can feel him shutter, close up like a blind, and she's almost sure he won't answer. Instead then she hears him take a deeper breath.

"He—Giovanni—" His voice stutters in his throat and he pauses, trying to still it. "When I went back he—he wanted me to kill you."

Misty's stomach turns into an icy lump. The sheets sigh. "He knew you left the gym looking for me," he says. "He wanted you dead for it. And he wanted me to be the one to—" Another halt, stretching longer. "Sometimes I dream that he's making me hurt someone. This time it was—it was you."

Her mouth is dry when she swallows. "But that didn't happen, did it?" she tells him though. "You didn't hurt me. I'm fine."

For a few moments he's silent. Then: "Brock could be right. Someone could—want revenge for what I did."

"If they do we'll all face them with you. They won't stand a chance." She's very careful not to let on how much that possibility terrifies her as well. "And they won't be Giovanni."

Silence again. "No," he says after a second, almost like the realization just hit him all over again. "They won't be him."

She turns towards him. She can make out his silhouette in the glow of the clock on her nightstand, and she stretches out one hand and closes it around his. He holds onto it like it's an anchor, or maybe it's her who's doing that. "Sleep," she tells him, soft, before letting go.

She does that too finally, for a while. Come dawn though she's awake again, her hair plastered to her cheeks in clumps, a scream trapped in her throat. She blinks at the ceiling expecting to see the man's face, expecting to feel his blood run down her— her—

But there's nothing. There's nothing and she's not new to nightmares, and she lets the scream go in a breath, all squeezed up and shaky. She sits up. Togepi is asleep and so is Ash, Pikachu's tail peeking from under his arm. She doesn't want to wake them up again, so she slips out of her sleeping bag as quietly as she can and tiptoes to across the room, tucking her hair back behind her ear with unsteady fingers. She pushes the door open: she walks past her sister's bedroom. Past the living room where Brock and James are sleeping too.

The pool reflects the light from the window in pinkish ripples. It's still empty this early in the morning—her pokémon are asleep in their pokéballs or the aquariums. She sits on the edge and for a time just stares at it, the claws of her nightmare still scratching at the back of her mind. Finally she hides her face against her knees and cries for a bit, with only the water to hear.

***

Ash is standing in front of her mirror when she goes back to her room, his glance lowered towards something. She walks closer, curious: he's holding the picture she kept there, looking down at it with a slight furrow to ripple is forehead.

"It was in Johto," she tells him, stopping at his side. "Remember?"

He nods. "Yeah," he says, and in his voice there's a hint of a trepidation she doesn't quite catch entirely, a longing, maybe. He turns to look at her. His frown deepens after a blink. "You okay? Were you crying?"

She shakes her head. "I just didn't sleep much. Wanna go eat some breakfast? James said if we leave early maybe he can get us to Pallet within the day."

He looks unconvinced, but nods again. He sets the photo down. His eyes still linger on it for a second as he turns, his fingertips trailing over their joined hands.

***

When they can finally make out the small scatter of lights of Pallet Ash's chest squeezes tight. It's well past the sunset—they've been flying all day without stopping. Pikachu climbs on his shoulder to see and points a paw towards them with an excited "Pika!": _look._

He's looking. His breath catches a little. Misty leans next to him to the edge of the basket, wind blowing her hair on her face. "Almost there," comes James' voice, the roar of the burner a steady blasting sound.

"I spoke with your mother on the phone this morning before we left," Brock says. Ash glances at him.

"You did?"

"I didn't want to keep her waiting longer before knowing that you're okay." Brock smiles. "She's waiting for us. She's at Professor Oak's lab."

Ash says nothing. He turns back to the lights with his throat closed by a wet fluttery lump, watching them grow closer, closer, almost within reach of his hand.

They land atop the hill. The wind turbine of Professor Oak's laboratory is a tall shape against the starry sky, dark and slowly moving, but there's light still on behind the building's windows, even if it's probably past midnight by now. James clears his voice.

"Well kids, guess this is where I say goodbye. No offense, but I hope it's a while before I see your faces again."

Misty looks at him and a smile creeps to the corners of her lips. She takes a step towards him: throws her arms around him in a brief hug, and he jumps back near-immediately, frantically waving his hands in the air and red enough in the face that the darkness doesn't make it any less obvious. "H-hey kid, that—that's—"

"Thank you," she just tells him. "I'd never have done it without your help."

He strokes the back of his neck. "...Yeah. Um. Glad to be of service."

"Thank Jessie and Meowth too, okay?"

"Will do," he promises. Then looks at all of them, his glance stopping on Ash last. "Stay out of trouble, kids."

The flame of the burner flares high, taking the balloon back up into the night sky. "Ready?" Misty asks him as his eyes leave it. He takes a breath. Nods.

The grass whispers underfoot. Misty knocks on the door, and from the other side comes the patter of hurried footsteps, the clatter of shaky fingers fumbling with the latch.

His mother looks at him. A moment; then she's stepped towards him and her hands are at his shoulders, but there she stops, not touching him but with a silent _can I?_ filling her eyes. He manages another nod. Only then she gathers him into a hug, eager and warm and trembling, and Ash's muscles go stiff but he gets his fists to fall lose after a second—gets himself to hug back, a little. He can hear her draw an almost-sob at that.

"What happened to you?!" she wants to know. She takes his face in her hands and steps back to see him in the light pouring from inside, her mouth wavering at the sight of the bruises. Her eyes run to Misty next and she stretches a hand towards her as well, lays it on her cheek, her thumb resting near her battered lip. "And you! Oh..."

Ash swallows. "Just—a little bump in the road," he tells her. Breathes: "He's—he's not going to hurt me anymore now mom, don't worry. He won't ever hurt anyone else."

He can see the questions crowding on her face, but she steps aside to let them in first. Mimey does the same, half-hidden behind her skirt. Ash's eyes run over the anteroom of the laboratory, his stomach lurching some in anticipation: he sees Professor Oak first, staring back at him with his mouth hanging open like he forgot how to close it. Next to him Tracey sits down on the first thing he can find, his expression a near-spitting image of the older man's.

He was not expecting Gary. He's standing in the doorway and looking at him with a glare that might as well be murderous—if not for the fact that there's tears in his eyes. Ash kicks the floor a bit.

"...Hey," he says. And: "I heard you threw away a league victory for me."

Gary's brings an unsteady hand to his face and presses his brow into his palm, hard. "I—" he starts; and then he can't say anything else.

His mother's hand is at his shoulder again. "We have a lot to talk about," she says, her voice all wavery and thin. "All of us. But first—come inside and sit. Rest. You must be tired from the journey."

Rest sounds nice. The bumpy day-long flights weren't especially kind on his aching ribs. He lets her lead him towards the hallway, turning briefly to meet Misty and Brock's glances, Pikachu's weight a comforting constant on his other shoulder. And maybe, he finds himself thinking, even though just being surrounded by so many eyes all staring and all wanting feels so overwhelming he could crumple to the floor, maybe: maybe Misty is right. Maybe he can try after all. At least try.

***

"Ready to see them?"

The morning sun shines low on the horizon, almost blinding to the eye as he takes in the whole of the laboratory's preserve. "I am," he answers after a couple moments, his voice faltering the tiniest bit, and she smiles and tosses the armful of pokéballs into the air.

His pokémon materialize on the grass around them in a scatter of bright red flashes. There's staring, of course—lots of it. Before the pause can hang on long enough to become unbearable though Bayleef's started running towards him and she's tackled him eagerly enough to throw him off his feet, and then Bulbasaur's on him too, and Totodile, and his bruises yell louder than ever but they're all hugging him and licking his face and his chest feels full and bubbly and— _oh._ Laughter. He's laughing.

Misty squeezes in and gently nudges Bayleef aside a little. "Come on guys, I know you're happy to see him, but try not to crush him, alright?"

He doesn't mind. The grass tickles the back of his neck and Bulbasaur keeps licking his face, and maybe, he lets himself think again, maybe—

***

—maybe not. Late in the afternoon Misty finds him sitting upstairs in the dark, back to the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. Her steps halt and then hasten: "Ash?" She crouches down at his side, her fingers only barely brushing his shoulder. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answers, but it comes out all twisted up and wrong. She doesn't believe it, of course. He forces himself to breathe: "It's just—my mom keeps worrying and asking if I'm okay, and the professor, too, and Tracey, and even _Gary_ came over twice and they all—everyone wants to make sure I'm okay, and I don't—"

He pauses. She waits, looking at him. "I don't—I don't _know_ how to give them that," he finishes. He bites the inside of his cheek. "I don't know if I'm okay."

She's silent for a second. "That's alright," she tells him then. He scoffs some.

"Really."

"Yes." She takes the hand away, resting it on her knee. "Being okay again after—after you've been _not okay_ is... it takes time, Ash. It's hard. Really. You need to make an effort, but you don't _have_ to be okay right off the bat. No one expects you to be. We all just want you to know that you can count on us if you're not."

He says nothing. "Do you want me leave you alone too?" she asks.

He bites down harder. Shakes his head.

"I'll just sit here with you for a bit then," she says, and does just that. For a while neither of them speaks.

"You know," she tells him then. She leans her head against the wall, her hands laced around her ankles. "Your mom told me something once."

"My mom?"

"Yeah." Her eyes wander a little. "She said that at first after something hurts you it's like when you break a glass. If you try to hold a piece it keeps cutting your hand no matter what. But then when time passes it's like when that piece of glass has been in the sea for a while, and the waves start to smooth all the sharp bits off. So it cuts a little less, and eventually maybe it'll get to the point when it doesn't anymore." She pauses for a moment. "But it takes time. So it's okay if you still get cut now. It really is."

He mulls over her words, silent still. Peeks at the slightly hardened lines of her profile after a bit, wondering how much the broken glass he stuck in her hand too still cuts.

And then later that night he's awake way past the time he should be, the darkness still too unnerving to close his eyes, and so he hears the sudden gasping breath coming from the bedroll on the floor and the ones after, hurriedly muffled into a hand or the pillow. He listens, frowning: he hears something else after a minute, a breath still but too swooping and ragged. A sob.

He pushes his blanket aside. Trying not to wake up Pikachu, he finds the first step of the ladder under his foot and begins to climb down, stopping in his tracks when it creaks way too loudly. In the bedroll Misty is facing away from him, her hands clasped around her mouth, and her shoulders are jumping a little and yep, she's definitely crying, and there's no way she hasn't heard him but she doesn't turn, doesn't move at all save for the small hiccups rattling her shape.

He hesitates there a moment, then another, not knowing what to do. In the end he hops to the floor and crouches down near the bedroll. His fingers hover over her shoulder a bit. Touch it then, only just barely, following its slope towards her neck. Her hair.

"Misty," he whispers. "Hey."

She takes her hand off her mouth slightly and mutters, "What?"

"You, huh—" he starts asking, then stops, remembering their conversation from earlier. She's obviously not okay, he can tell as much, so he swallows and instead he asks: "What's wrong?"

Misty sniffles. Wipes the back of her hand over her eyes and breathes, trying to hold the sobs back down. "Nothing. I told you. I—I have nightmares too sometimes." She pauses and then shakily attempts a joking tone: "At least now—I get some variety, I guess."

Ash bites his lip. He's quiet for a few seconds. "The other morning," he says then. "When I asked if you were crying. Were you?"

A brief hesitation. "Yeah."

"Why did you say no?"

She shrugs. "You've got enough you're feeling guilty for already. You didn't need to take on this too."

Ash's stomach squeezes painfully. He sits down on the floor and breathes, slowly. "You keep helping me," he tells her after a couple moments. The words feel heavy in his chest. "Like today. And with most of the bad things I did I can't—there's nothing I can do to make it better. I can't make up to the people I hurt in any way. I can't—I can't even apologize. Probably never will." He closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the ladder. "So if there's at least some way I can help _you—_ please—"

He stops. The sheets rustle. When he dares to look again she's watching him too, her eyes still wet with tears. "Can I?" he asks. "Help?"

She looks at him for a blink still; then scoots aside a little, making some space. Sniffles again: "Just lie here a bit, would you?"

His chest gives a strange stuttering flutter, but he slips into the bedroll, trying not to elbow her or Togepi in the face. Her toes are cold. The rest of her is warm. She snuggles against him the tiniest bit, catching a breath in a small hiccuping sound: maybe she's just trying to get into a more comfortable position. For a while he lies stiff at her side. But when her hand bumps into his he gingerly takes it, and together they wait for the rest of the night to pass.

***

The pokégear rings one last time. It's early morning and Ash is taking a shower, and Brock is downstairs helping his mother with breakfast, so only Misty is there to hear the sudden muffled sound. She pauses for a second, the hairbrush Mrs. Ketchum lent her in one hand. Her heart jumps into her throat a little. She turns.

She kneels next to her backpack and finds the device. Flips it open: Mrs. R's face comes into view as the screen lights up. For a moment they just stare at each other. Then the woman clears her voice.

"I wasn't sure if you'd still still have the pokégear."

"I wasn't sure if I should keep it."

The woman nods. "I've heard many contradictory things about what happened at the Team Rocket headquarters four days ago," she says. "But I'm not wrong in assuming you were involved, am I?"

Misty bites the inside of her cheek a bit. "Ash killed Giovanni," she tells her. "I set the building on fire so we could escape. Well, James did, but I told him to."

Mrs. R's glance trails briefly in consideration. She shakes her head then, adjusting her glasses. "Well, while I do still find your actions bordering on suicidal, I won't hide that I am impressed. And I think I owe you a thank you. Giovanni's departure releases me from any obligation I had towards him and the organization."

"What's going to happen now?" Misty wants to know. "I mean is Team Rocket—gone? Just like that?"

"Unlikely." One word's enough to make her stomach sink. "The sudden loss of its leader has no doubt been a hard blow, but Team Rocket is far too spread to just fade to nothing. You may have cut off its head, but many of its tentacles are still thriving. What's probably going to happen now is that someone else is going to try and fill Giovanni's vacant seat as your friend was supposed to and take the reins of what's left, but without him there to control the succession process that's probably going to bring about many an in-fight. I have little doubt that the organization will survive that as well, but it may come out furtherly weakened and fragmented."

Misty swallows. "And—what does that mean for us? Should we be worried? Could someone want to avenge Giovanni's death, or...?"

The question hangs in the air. The woman looks at her: almost gently, her glance softened by a hint of something that almost looks like fondness. "As I told you," she says, "there are currently many contradictory accounts circulating on how things went. And having my suspicions about the truth, which you just confirmed, I have taken the liberty of mudding the waters further spreading some fake rumors of my own. Currently the most accredited version is that both the arson and Giovanni's assassination were part of a plan orchestrated by an emerging rival organization. Far more believable than it being the doing of two children alone, don't you concur? Not to mention as far as I can tell not many actually knew the identity of the boss's son, and most of those who did, the higher-ups, are probably going to have their hands full with damage control for a long while. If they aren't aiming for Giovanni's chair themselves." A pause. "You should be safe enough."

For a second Misty revels in the information. A second. "But—the cameras. They were everywhere, no way there aren't recordings of what we did—"

"Conveniently destroyed in the fire," Mrs. R stops her. She doesn't say outright what that _conveniently_ means _,_ but the way her eyes pointedly lock into hers is enough. Misty doesn't know what to say at first. How to even fully take in that notion, either, that they might really be safe at last.

She breathes. "Thank you," she says. The woman waves it away with a nod of her head.

"With Giovanni gone the deal we had is null, so once this conversation is over you'll never hear from me again," she continues. "And I would like not to hear from you or any of your friends, either. I would also like you to get rid of this device."

"I will," Misty promises. Then asks: "Is you family okay?"

"Aye."

"Even—" a brief hesitation. "Abbie?"

Mrs. R's face clouds. "I have yet to see or hear from her since what happened with you. But she'll turn up eventually. For what it's worth, I tell you she'll have to earn my forgiveness."

Misty says nothing for a moment. "Can I know your name?" she asks next, not really expecting an answer. She doesn't get one: the old woman just looks back at her and smiles slightly, her eyes golden mirrors behind the lens of her glasses.

"You don't need anything more from me, child," she says. And on that she hangs up.

Misty stares at the black screen for a while. Then closes a hand around it; takes a breath. Pushes back until the plastic snaps.

***

The night air is dry and crisp. Ash cranes his head back and looks at the canopy of stars above: still far, far away. But perhaps a little bit less so now that Giovanni's shadow is no longer looming over him. He's gone, he remembers Misty saying as she held him: gone. He stretches one hand and looks at it against the sky, looks at his five fingers reaching. Pikachu looks with him.

The window swings open. "You know," comes Misty's voice after a moment, "it would be nice of you to stop disappearing while I'm asleep."

"Sorry," he tells her. "Wasn't trying to disappear." He hears a little sigh.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Thinking."

"You're going to fall and break your neck. I'm not coming to your funeral twice."

"I'm not gonna fall," he retorts. And then: "Come up here. It's nice."

A second goes by. Then the window creaks again and she climbs onto the roof, carefully making her way towards him with her arms spread at her sides. "Aren't you cold?" she asks, and her hand briefly rubs his arm as she sits, as if to try and warm him up even if he didn't say yes. He gives a small shrug.

"I'm fine," he answers. She doesn't say anything. Just hugs her ankles and looks up as well, towards the stars twinkling above their heads. "Are you still mad?" he asks her after a bit.

Her glance darts to him. "For disappearing in the middle of the night to go face your death? Yeah. Of course I'm still mad," she retorts. But her face softens then, and her voice as well. "But I'm glad that I _can_ be mad. I'm glad you're here."

He can feel his lips twitch into a hint of a smile. "How are you? Aside from mad?"

She doesn't answer right away this time. She turns back ahead and the lines of her face tighten slightly, her eyes reflecting the night sky. "I killed two people," she says finally, almost matter-of-fact. Ash lowers his glance towards the garden.

"I've killed one for sure. Maybe more. Who knows with—all the people I've hurt." He swallows. "And I've hurt countless. Most of them did nothing to deserve it."

Misty looks at him. "And how are _you?_ "

"I'm—" A breath. "Trying."

"Guess I'm trying too," she sighs. For a while neither adds anything.

"I was thinking..." he says then, but his voice trails hesitantly, not quite daring to pull the concept out of his head. Misty gives him a curious look. He breathes again, in and out. "Maybe I'd like—to try traveling again. Not right now," he quickly adds. "I still wanna stay home a bit first. My mom still thinks what happened was her fault. I want to make sure she knows it's not before I go anywhere. And there's the whole thing to make me not-dead legally, my mom and the professor are still trying to get that done without drawing any attention and I dunno how long that'll take..."

He pauses again. He can feel her eyes still on him. Pikachu's, too. "But once that'll all be taken care of—I'd like to—" A gust of wind rises briefly, blowing his hair on his neck. "I mean, now that we know that we're probably safe—I never got to finish challenging the gyms in Johto. And I should probably prove that I really did deserve Gary's trophy, shouldn't I?"

Silence. His chest feels lighter than it has in ages. When he turns to her she's smiling: "I think that's a great idea," she tells him. "You should do that."

But he's not done. "I wanted to ask, if—when—I decide to go, would you—come with me?" He closes his eyes before he can see her reaction. "I'd like it," he adds. "If you came."

She's silent still for a couple moments. "I'll have to think about it a bit," she says then. "And talk to my sisters. I don't want to just abandon the gym. I have a responsibility, and I like what I managed to do there." Her hand finds his. "But I'd like to travel with you again, too. I'd really like that."

She's still smiling when he looks. "We still need to have that battle, anyway. I didn't get to kick your ass yet," she teases. "And you need to meet Brock's girlfriend."

"Think he'd wanna come too? Brock?"

"I'm sure. He could start his studies while we're on the road. Maybe even get some field practice."

Ash glances down at their hands. There's something else he'd like to tell her; something that feels like a warmth, like coming home. Starting to. But he doesn't know how to put that feeling into words.

"I—missed you," he ends up saying. That's not it, not quite. But she looks at him, her smile a little quivery now at the corners, and she scoots closer and lays an arm around his back. She pulls him to her side, leaning her cheek against his hair.

"Come here," she whispers. Her voice falters just a bit. "I missed you too, stupid. You have no idea how much."

And he still can't find the right words; but she keeps her arm around him, and after a while she kisses his hair again, and this time he's sure, he didn't imagine it. So maybe she feels that too.

***

(Days go by, slowly slowly. One night they hear a rustling outside the window and when Misty cautiously opens it there's a package the size of a lunchbox hovering above the front door. They both look up, along the almost invisible thread of fishing line lowering it and towards underside of the basket of a very familiar balloon. "Should we tell 'em we've seen them?" Ash asks, his brow scrunched into a frown.

"Nah. Let them believe they're the stealthiest cookie-gifters in Kanto," she says, and he laughs a little at that, and in that moment she's sure it was worth it all.

Days: a week. She flies back to Cerulean City. Speaks on the phone with Lily and Violet and explains everything to them as well, interrupted by about three hundreds questions. She and Daisy sit by the pool and talk after that, talk for a very long time.

"The gym is always going to be yours too," Daisy tells her. "You can like, come back whenever you want and pick it right back up if you trust us to run it again for a bit. You should do whatever makes you happy. You really deserve to be happy, sis'.")

***

The trees around the house are almost all orange now. The morning is warm, though, and Pikachu perches on his shoulder and offers his face to the sun for a couple seconds. "Pika?" he asks then. _Ready?_

Ash nods. His mother steals another hug from him, tight and smelling like the breakfast they just finished eating. "Please be careful, honey," she tells him one more time, her voice all twisted up and tearful. "And call me. And if you feel like it's too much and want to come back home, that's okay, alright?"

"Alright," he says, and his voice shakes too, just a tiny bit. "You try not to worry too much."

"I make no promises. And here. I found this."

She's holding his old hat. "It was in the back of your closet," she adds, and places it on his head, looking at him for another few moments after. He gives her a smile.

"See you, mom."

"See you, Mrs. Ketchum."

She's got hugs and recommendations for Misty and Brock too. After that she stands on the threshold, sniffling and waving goodbye with Mimey next to her. Ash turns to wave back one more time; then at the fence he stops, looking at the road stretching ahead. Wind rustles the trees.

The gravel of the walkway creaks. Misty stops at his side, looking with him. "Ready to go?" she asks, holding Togepi in one arm.

His heart is running fast. It's never going to be like before, he knows that. The past year is never going to go away, it can't just be scrubbed off like muddy footprints on the floor. He's still going to wake up screaming, thought it's starting to be not quite every night anymore. Still going to want to strike back whenever a hand comes too close. Even should he forget all that for a moment, all he's gotta do is glance down at the marks on his arms to remember. He's sure the same goes for her as well.

But they can try together.

He breathes. Reaches for the brim of his hat and turns it around. Then turns towards her and pulls his lips into another tentative smile, taking her hand in his to tug her out of the garden. She seems to find it an answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:
> 
> A/N: Oh my God, I can't believe I finished it. I'm free! And a bit sad. A little over a year ago I had a really cool dream that involved Ash showing up at Misty's door after having been believed dead. I then wrote that scene, and posted it on tumblr with the title "Sample of a fic I'm probably not writing". Nearly 120k words later, clearly I can say everything went according to plan.  
> I'm rather proud of getting here for a few reasons: I hadn't written anything remotely this long in years. I hadn't written anything this long, and managed to update it more or less regularly, in... I don't even know if I ever did, actually. The longest thing I had ever written in English before, barring translations of stuff originally written in my first language, amounted to less than 4k words—this is about thirty times as much. And lastly, while I'd rather not go into detail, a lot of this story and its themes are very personal to me.  
> I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who read, bookmarked an commented on it. For the reasons above it was also a hard project to work on, and while I have a... somewhat hard time engaging with feedback—in short, I don't ever know how to respond to it—it was very helpful in actually completing it. I hope it was an enjoyable read! Or at least not too big a disappointment. And if you were waiting for an actual kiss... sorry ^^; I don't think they're emotionally ready for that yet. I hope how they feel about each other still comes across, though.  
> See you some other time!


End file.
